


Shadow of the Phoenix

by SLotH4



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLotH4/pseuds/SLotH4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some wounds cut so deep they can never heal. Some crimes are so vile they can never be forgiven. How can one find redemption when the universe is arrayed against them? How can they forgive the unforgivable? Only darkness can protect the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fun Fact: A phoenix doesn’t have a shadow… you know… because it’s on fire. Less a fact and more a musing, really.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I want to make it very, very clear that this is a standalone piece and everything will be explained as the story progresses. However, it IS set within a universe created by another fanfiction author.
> 
> The author rangermike posted two stories on FFnet: “The Children” (Books I and II) and “Descended from Heroes and Villains.” In 2010 he allowed me to write a story based in that setting, which is what you’re about to read now. Unfortunately, Descended and the Children - Book II were removed from FFnet awhile back. If you are unfamiliar with those stories, feel free to message me. I have copies of all the chapters saved in PDF files. It isn’t necessary to read those stories to understand “Shadow of the Phoenix,” but it doesn’t hurt to read what it was based on. Plus, those stories were AWESOME!
> 
> I also want to give a huge shout-out to my Editing Gang. Without them, this story would be utter garbage.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I was asked what I wanted to achieve with this story. What my goals were. How it would be different.
> 
> In short, I want to sully the Star Wars universe. Bring its blemishes to the forefront. To bring a little realism to an overly optimistic setting where good and evil are black and white.
> 
> What happens to the Jedi when their corrupt leaders shroud themselves in righteousness? What happens to the Galactic Alliance, the successor to the New Republic, when it is allowed to fester and decay? What is the face of evil in a universe where ‘good’ is just a point of view?
> 
> No one’s hands are clean.

**Shadow of the Phoenix **

* * *

_Taral is portrayed by Steven Yeun_

_Doctor Tiffan’Staddo is portrayed by Carolyn Seymour_

_Master Tokare Venra is voiced by Patrick Stewart_

_Captain Ventralez is portrayed by Daniel Craig_

* * *

_The din of blaster fire filled the air. A distant shriek echoing down the street. An endless river of silver armor surging through the city. The screaming never ends…_

The young dreamer came to with a splitting headache and noticed strange noises all around him. Distorted at first, the sounds slowly cleared until words became recognizable.

 “—to be metal fragments embedded between the occipital lobes. It looks like a cranial implant, something he received well before we found him. It burned out and I’ve removed what I could, the database couldn’t identify the fragments so I think it’s a prototype.”

_“I see. The Admiral wants to meet with the boy after he finishes his mission on Tatooine.”_

“He’s unconscious at the moment, but his vitals seem stable.”

_“Alright, keep an eye on him; we’ll be landing in two hours.”_

Taral opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the bright sterile lights of the room burned his vision. His olive-green eyes felt dull and dry as he squinted against the light, blurry and distorted shapes slowly resolving themselves into a pair of humanoid figures and blocky furniture. He reached up to massage his temples in a futile attempt to dull the pain of the emerging migraine, but instead of feeling the soft strands of his hair, he touched the textured fabric of gauze bandages.

As his vision cleared he realized that he was locked in a force cage, wearing nothing more than tattered pants. His cell was a simple, one-person force cage; an energy field descended from the emitter ring in the ceiling in a circular, barrier curtain. Ignoring his injury, he reached out with the Force to dull the pain, but nothing happened.

Sliding a hand to his throat his fingers grasped a silver band and he felt electricity surge across his skin. He grunted in quiet agony as the muscle spasms amplified his headache, drawing the attention of one of his captors. She was an older woman, with salted hair and a white medical uniform.

“You’re awake, good. How do you feel?” she asked as she pulled out a datapad and sat on a nearby stool.

“Where am I?” Taral asked, ignoring her question.

“You’re aboard the  _Gayiyli_ ; do you remember how you got here?”

“No,” he replied, eying the room.

“You were with a group of trandoshans, raiding artifacts on Felucia. Does that jog your memory at all?”

“Felucia… that’s the, uh…” Taral started, struggling to recall what he’d seen on the HoloNet, “the place with the mushrooms, right?”

“It is. You really don’t remember?”

“No. A pity, I’d have liked to see the forest,” he said before furrowing his brow, “What is the date?”

The doctor checked her datapad, unsure of it offhand. “The 23rd of Tispex, 457 ABY – Coruscant Standard.”

Taral was silent as he calculated how long it had been since he last remembered. It came out to just over one year. Then he turned his thoughts to his captors,  _‘Coruscant Standard,’ those glyphs on the wall, the guard’s armor… Mandalorians, but which faction?_

“Maybe we should start with introductions – I’m Doctor Tiffan’Staddo, and this is Verd Riorr,” the doctor offered as she gestured to the armed guard near the door, “What’s your name?” The question was met with silence and narrowed eyes, so she moved on. “Are you hungry? I can send for a meal if you wish.”

His brows rose at the offer. Could he trust them? ‘Verd’ was a Mandalorian rank, but if they were Tlon Fett’s marauders then this treatment made no sense – they should have been working him over with a serrated knife, not making small talk. In the end, his stomach answered with a low grumble, bringing a soft smile to the doctor’s lips.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” she said as she pressed the comm button on her desk and signaled the ship’s galley, “Please send up a tray of the ‘late bird special’ with a bottle of water to medical room 43a. No metal.”

_“Acknowledged. ETA: six minutes.”_

The woman nodded her head as she killed the link. “It won’t be gourmet, I’m afraid. Military rations are an acquired taste.”

Taral eyed the woman curiously. He ignored the guard because the man was acting as expected, but the doctor? “Why are you doing this?”

“It wouldn’t do for you to starve to death under my care,” the doctor said with a smile, “Not used to such treatment?”

“It’s just unexpected.”

Doctor Staddo made a note on her datapad. “There were metal fragments embedded near your brain stem. Do you remember receiving any cranial implants?”

“I have a pair of aftermarket tizowyrms, but nothing else.”

“And those are implanted in the ear, interesting. I wonder if the fragments are related to your recent ‘amnesia.’ ”

The doctor continued probing him with questions – who he was, where he came from, what he remembered – but received silence more often than not. A ding at the door brought an end to the ‘interrogation’ as a tray of bilerat stew and gihaal paste was delivered. The doctor offered her thanks and inspected the meal, ensuring nothing on the tray could be repurposed into a weapon. Satisfied, she placed the tray into a rolling duct which connected the Force cage to the outside.

Taral eyed the channel as he pulled the tray out, dismissing it as too small to fit through. The smell that filled his space might have been unpleasant, but he didn’t even notice. He tore into the faux meat and gritty starches with wild abandon.

She eyed him curiously as he wolfed down what was generously referred to as ‘food.’ “Are you military? I’m never seen a civilian consume this gruel without vomiting; you almost look happy.”

“I’m used to worse,” he said with a mouthful of flavored protein substitute.

“I can only imagine,” the doctor said, “Enjoy it while you can. Alitt’alor Fett wants to have a word with you once we land.”

Taral froze in mid-chew as he heard the name, his brow quivering a moment before relaxing into a disinterested frown as he started chewing again.  _So they are part of Fett’s gang. She must be trying to gain my trust before the torture,_  he thought as he wiped up the last of the gihaal paste with a sliver of haarshun bread.

“If you’re ready, I had some more questions,” she said.

The back-and-forth continued for several minutes until he refused to speak anymore. The doctor relented and returned to her desk, leaving the young man to his thoughts.

_Last thing I remember I was strapped to a table on Dosuun. How did Fett get ahold of me?_

He ran his fingers across the silver ring around his neck, smiling at the contraption that shackled him to the mundane. Force inhibitors were quite effective against Jedi and Sith as both groups literally radiated Force energy. However, there was a unique sect of Force-users throughout history who expressed their gift in the opposite manner – they were ‘wounds’ in the Force, acting like living siphons.

A tiny nudge with the Force would be immediately absorbed by the siphon, preventing the collar from registering and subsequently neutralizing the energy output. So it was that the collar’s locking mechanism snapped and the suppression collar fell into his hand.

The sensation of reopening one’s perceptions to the power of the Force was indescribable – like explaining color to the blind. Perceptions would expand and one could taste the galaxy for the first time; senses heightened, colors more pronounced, and sounds perceived at a higher level. The feeling was narcotic. The energy of the medical room had been flowing in a lackadaisical manner, like food coloring in a glass of still water. With the collar removed, the energy gained momentum and slowly began to swirl around him.

He lifted his arms in a mock stretch and used the Force to rip out the emitter’s power cables, disabling the barrier curtain. As the curtain dissipated he threw the guard against the wall with a prepared Force push and rushed the soldier, swatting the doctor aside with a weaker throw. He slammed into the guard with his shoulder, wrestling for the blaster rifle even as it loosed several wild shots into the wall.

A quick palm strike to the helmet dazed the guard long enough for Taral to rip the rifle from his hands and shoot him in the stomach. He raised the rifle for the kill shot when the doctor leapt onto his back, scalpel in hand. She reached around to try and slit his throat, only to be blocked by the stolen blaster rifle and his unarmored forearm, cutting a deep furrow into the flesh and muscle.

Taral gave a roar of pain as he backhanded the doctor before smashing her nose with the butt of the rifle. He turned the barrel on her as she fell against a nearby cabinet, clutching her broken, bloody face. As he pulled the trigger he was tackled from behind and the shot went wide.

The guard kneeled over him, forcing a knife down even as he held the Mandalorian back. The blade inched closer as the guard put all of his weight into the push. As the metal made contact with his throat, Taral lashed out with the Force, but the guard was prepared for it and was unmoved.

Taral freed his right hand and pushed it against the guard’s wounded stomach, using the Force to squeeze and pull his damaged innards. Even as he was overpowered and the blade bit into his skin, he was able to push it away and into his shoulder as the guard flinched from the internal attack. Doubling down, he shoved two fingers into the wound and ripped the knife out of the guard’s hand, slamming the blade into the Mandalorian’s throat.

Pushing the body away, Taral rose to his feet and wiped the guard’s blood from his eyes, the groan of the doctor drew his attention as she struggled to stand. Grabbing her by the hair, he slammed her face into the cabinet and threw her to the ground, sitting on her chest and wrapping his hands around her throat. She kicked and clawed, but gradually became torpid as spots danced before her eyes and she lost consciousness.

Taral kept the pressure up, knuckles white beneath the blood. Kill or be killed, that was the one lesson of the universe. But as his heart calmed and the adrenaline left his system, his fingers went slack and the doctor gasped for air, coughing as blood from her nose flowed into her mouth. The coughing died down and her breathing steadied as he grabbed a pair of binders from the dead guard and chained the woman to a water pipe in the corner. He cursed his hesitation, but the doctor’s kindness was too jarring to simply kill her.

With the doctor secure, he spent the next five minutes cleaning his wounds and sealing them with synthflesh. As the last of the bionetic gel hardened, he looked around the room and realized something was missing.  _Wait, where’s Biala?_  He let out a frustrated hiss as he wiped the blood from his face and arms with a damp cloth, refocusing on his escape.  _No point in becoming distracted, not even for her._

The quiet whoosh of flowing air brought his attention to the doctor’s desk. Squatting down he could make out the metal grate of a ventilation system pumping out cold air. The screws holding the cover in place began to unscrew themselves and fall to the floor. Taral gave a hard swallow as he eyed the cramped ventilation duct. If he’d had anything other than a scalpel and half-charged blaster rifle he’d have taken his chances with the front door.

Sucking in a deep breath he crawled under the desk and climbed into the claustrophobic opening. The duct was cramped, barely enough room to fit his shoulders which dragged against the freezing metal. Once his feet were inside he managed to close the metal grate and reattach it to the wall with the Force. He gave a few calming breaths before dragging himself through the metal tube.

He crawled for what felt like hours through the endless twists and turns of the labyrinthine ventilation system. His skin rippled with goosebumps and his teeth chattered without pause, it made him wonder if avoiding a fight was really the most prudent choice. Beyond the crippling anxiety of cramped spaces, the greatest threat he’d faced so far was hypothermia and the two maintenance droids he’d crushed, hopefully they wouldn’t be missed.

_Cold, cold, cold, cold… fucking cold._

Taral crawled through the frigid shaft for several more minutes until he heard a peculiar noise. It came from a secondary shaft that branched off to the right at an intersection. He hissed in pain as a shard of exposed metal near the connection joint sliced through his bicep. Blood poured down his arm, but quickly coagulated in the freezing air. He ignored the discomfort and followed the noise to a vent cover that overlooked a dark room. Using the Force, he forced the hatch open and pulled it into the shaft so as not to make any noise. He looked through the hole and saw nothing but darkness in a vast empty space.

 _Hmm?_  Taral looked up and saw a turbolift rushing toward him.  _There’s my ride._

As the lift passed, it blocked out what little light was available and as soon as the light returned he leapt from the vent and landed on the roof as it slowed its descent. He made his way over to the grated maintenance hatch, careful to maintain his balance.  _Let’s see who’s riding this thi— What the fuckity-fuck?_  A lone devaronian Jedi entered the turbolift and pressed one of the higher floors.  _A Jedi? On a Mandalorian ship?_

He pushed the stray thought out of his mind and began to open the hatch as quietly as he could, all the while flooding the Jedi’s senses with perceptual ‘white noise.’ The Jedi remained oblivious even as Taral dropped to the floor behind him and grabbed his horns before wrenching his neck ninety degrees. He then used the Force to throw the body through the maintenance hatch before leaping through himself.

The distant sound of a siren suggested the doctor had been found and his cover blown – best to hide any further victims. He took a moment to examine his mistakes as he picked over the Jedi’s body. In his rush to escape, he’d not properly probed the ship through the Force.

 _Hmm, basic white and brown robes and…_  Taral’s thoughts ground to a halt as he beheld the devaronian’s lightsaber, a snap-hiss bathing the lift tube in yellow light. “Wow, this thing’s garbage, no wonder they don’t focus on the blade arts.”

He stripped the body of its clothing and discarded the tattered pants he was wearing, realizing too late that the Jedi’s attire was the wrong size. He discarded the bandages on his head and released the long brown waves of his hai—

Taral’s eyes went wide as his hands ruffled the buzz cut he now wore, the stubbled scalp reminding him of his time with that pirate gang. He gave a groan at the memory, staying his annoyance before pulling the large hood over his brow. His head had been throbbing since he awoke, and with the bandages now removed he felt utterly wretched; he touched the inflamed tissue beneath the hood and winced in pain. Ignoring his discomfort, he dropped back into the turbolift and closed the hatch with the Force. He walked over to the control panel and pressed the emergency stop button. As the turbolift jolted to a standstill, he pressed the haptic button for the orlop deck and began his descent.

He stood in the center of the lift, contemplating his current situation and wondering how he became a Mandalorian prisoner. His thoughts were brought back to the pain emanating from his skull; what was it from? The cranial implant the doctor mentioned?

And then it hit him.

_“If you won’t stand beside me as an ally, then you will kneel before me as a slave.”_

Taral let out a sigh as the memory passed.  _Oh, Vath, why must you hurt me so?_

His thoughts were interrupted as the turbolift ground to a halt and the doors opened up to a small lobby. He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible as he walked past dozens of armed and armored Mandalorians; it seemed to work as none of them paid him any mind as they rushed to their stations. The alarms were still blaring, the sound reverberating in his skull like a hammer to an anvil, but he avoided plugging his ears for fear of drawing attention.

A large holographic map on the wall caught his eye; near the center-left were the Mando’a words for ‘Hangar Bay.’ It wasn’t too far away, only a minute or two. He received several glances along the way, but no one looked too closely. The alarms had finally died down, but everyone was still tense.

The doors to the hangar opened as he approached, revealing an expansive room filled with fighters and support craft. Most of the ships were suspended from the ceiling, held aloft by vertical columns with horizontal struts. Luckily, there was no need for him to climb, as there were several starfighters resting on the floor.

The RP-16E Venom heavy-fighter took the basic design of the RP-16 Venom fighter and extended the body, filling the new space with additional armaments and equipment. Each had the same basic paint scheme as all the other ships in the hangar; the ion engines and its stubby wings were coated in a desert-tan, while the cockpit and most of the hull were painted a light burgundy.

Taral approached the heavy-fighters with an appraising eye, trying to decide which of the identical craft to steal. “Eenie, meenie, miney— Fuck it, this one’ll do.”

He opened the canopy and jumped in, getting his first view of the controls. Mandalorians used a hybrid analogue/haptic interface, he had to admit it was a clever design – the Alliance and Imperial navies made extensive use of haptic-exclusive technology, leaving them vulnerable to enemy hackers and EMPs. He was also pleasantly surprised by the simplicity of the controls, not that it did him any good. With increasing frustration he began pressing buttons and flipping switches, quickly locating the air-conditioning… the exact opposite of the fighter’s ignition. The Force remained silent in this time of need and even seemed to mock the young Force-user’s ineptitude.

_I’m almost happy you’re not here to see this, Biala._

After five minutes, during which he activated a radio which played only the Mandalorian national anthem and found he was incapable of turning the damn thing off, Taral found the ignition knob. The fact that it was clearly labeled ‘ignition’ just made him grumble in annoyance.

As he reached for the knob, there was a rapping on the transparisteel canopy from one of the Mandalorians. “Jetii, we’ve been over this before, you’re authorized to roam the  _Gayiyli_ , but you are not cleared to poke around the starfighters. Please get out and return to your quarters.”

Taral ignored the man and turned the ignition knob, powering up the ion engines and awkwardly lifting the fighter off the deck, bumping and scraping against anything close by. Alarms went off in the hangar bay as the staff and pilots quickly mobilized. The pilots ran to their fighters as Taral made off with his RP-16E, their only hope was to rush after him and hopefully shoot him down… unless they were actually competent, in which case they could quickly corral the stolen fighter back to the ship without issue.

The hijacked fighter passed through the bay’s magnetic field just as the control room switched it from a passive barrier to an active one. The pursuing Mandalorians were delayed for a second or two as the field was again switched to passive.

The RP-16E Venom heavy-fighter had an inferior Class 2 hyperdrive, so his options for escape were fairly limited. There was a nearby planet and he could just make out the lights of a city in its shadow. It was actually part of a binary planet system, orbiting an almost identically-sized world. The slightly larger of the two was a light brown color, suggesting prairie and desert. The smaller planet was an emerald sphere covered in lush, green forests. It was the Onderon-Dxun binary system.

 _Only one way out,_  Taral thought as he  _slowly_  turned toward the planets,  _Shit, where’s the turbo on this thing?_  He pressed several buttons and watched as the ship’s spotlights activated. “You gotta be fucking kidding me! Where the fuck— ‘H-Drive,’ perfect!” he whooped as he pushed the lever forward and felt the increased g-forces of the ship’s acceleration.

The starlight shifted to blue as the hyperdrive spun up and prepared to leave behind this banal dimension. It was risky jumping so close to a planet’s gravity well, but if he could just skim the perimeter of it he could put some distance between him and the crui—

His starfighter gave a hard lurch and his chest strained against the harness. He looked around as the stars returned to pinpoints, desperately trying to discover the issue, only to curse when he realized he was caught in a tractor beam. The projected force-field pulling him back to the ship as a small group of fighter-craft began circling him like a flock of Wayland clawbirds.

Taral began pressing buttons, hoping to find a way to break free of the tractor beam, but nothing worked. One of the knobs tuned into the radio-feed of the other pilots, the ship speakers erupting with various jibes in their native Mando’a, mocking the piloting skills of their target. His eye gave a twitch as he listened to their conversation, desperately trying to keep his composure and ignore the urge to explode with rage and invective into the radio mic.

It didn’t last long.

With a growl, he activated the targeting systems and prepped the fighter’s missiles. Hearing a soft chime, he opened the mic and punched the launch button. “Suck my torpedoes, motherfu—” Only instead of torpedoes and missiles launching… the windshield wipers activated. “…Goddammit.”

He let out a withering sigh as he closed his eyes and slumped in his seat, head lolling back against the headrest. The jeering pilots on the radio faded from his perception as he resigned himself to fate.  _Should’ve taken a piloting course._

* * *

 **THE** _**GAYIYLI** _

_**NAU’UR KAD** _ **-CLASS CRUISER**

Master Tokare Venra sat in his hoverchair as the stolen fighter was brought back into the hangar bay. The old Jedi had been meditating on the ship’s bridge, reflecting on the state of his mission, and was rather impressed the prisoner had managed to escape, for the most part, undetected.

Yesterday, under orders of the Mandalore, he'd been dispatched to Planet Felucia to recover dozens of hidden artifacts. The data cache was carefully hidden away within the gullet of the Ancient Abyss, a mega-sarlacc pit of titanic proportions. Long ago the holocrons and other artifacts had been sealed away in watertight, armored crates and brought to the pit by one of Mandalore’s ancestors. They took the crates into the belly of the beast, cut open the lining of the creature’s stomach, and placed the crates within the wounds, protecting them from digestion and later excretion.

After several standard months, the wounds had healed over and there was no trace of the crates. The only way to detect them was through the Force or by using highly sensitive gear. However, they were only detectable from within the Abyss and no one would be crazy enough to actually search through the stomach of a sarlacc.

And yet, that’s exactly what happened. Thieves had descended into the belly of the beast, cutting through scar tissue and ripping out the hidden crates. Master Tokare and a team of Mandalorian Supercommandos arrived before they could flee, butchering the thieves to a man – all save one.

A Dark Jedi in matte armor ripped into the group like a dire-cat, red lightsaber slashing to-and-fro. Two of the men he’d brought were left crippled, while he himself brought the young man down. And yet, when felt through the Force, the boy seemed absent, as if he was a stone or a piece of durasteel. It didn’t make sense, unless the boy was a wound in the Force. Force wounds were not unheard of; several ‘area-wounds’ existed throughout the galaxy. Places of unimaginable genocide, when an entire planet’s population was wiped out in a single moment. But a Force wound within an individual was almost unheard of outside of the Jedi Exile Dacen Vorsut and the Sith Lord Darth Nihilus.

Tokare had read the accounts of the Sith Civil War and the memoirs of the miraluka Jedi, Visas Marr. Her account of the time spent in servitude to the Lord of Hunger was utterly horrifying. A man who literally sucked the life out of anything he was near, to the point that his very presence in the same room could kill. He could perceive a small amount of Force energy flowing into the boy, but it did not drain the room. Perhaps this boy was weaker than initially suspected, or perhaps this wound had only recently manifested itself.

It was enough to completely mask him within the Force, his escape going unnoticed until Doctor Staddo was recovered. The old Jedi attempted to find the escapee through the Force, but the boy’s aura was too weak against the din of the ship’s crew.

Tokare watched the boy as he stepped out of the cockpit, discarding his dark brown cloak and activating his stolen lightsaber. The old Jedi frowned as he looked upon the robes the boy wore; he’d feared the worst when he felt Jedi Knight Manu Grahrk’s aura fall silent.

His frown became thoughtful as the boy flipped the yellow blade behind his back and assumed the idle stance of the reverse Shien technique. When they’d dueled inside the Ancient Abyss, the young man had relied solely on the Ataru technique. The reverse grip was almost as rare as the Vaapad form – the most recent practitioner of note was an Imperial agent named Starkiller, and he had died over four hundred years ago.

* * *

Taral felt the thrum of the lightsaber in his palm as he surveyed his opponents.  _Mandalorians and… hmm?_  He thought as he looked upon Master Tokare.  _It looks like a frog… but feels like a Jedi._

“Much hate in your heart. Turn away from the dark side. Only suffering will it lead to,” Tokare pleaded.

Taral counted twenty-three Mandalorians in front of him and dozens more on their way. They were no threat to him, at least not in his mind. No, the only one that gave him pause was the diminutive Jedi sitting in the small hoverchair. He’d never seen such a creature before and it made him curious.

“Surrender, dark one. You need not die here,” Tokare said.

“You’re pretty chatty for a corpse,” Taral said as he walked toward Tokare.

The Mandalorians readied their weapons as Master Tokare stood upon his hoverchair and ignited his lightsaber, the blazing viridian blade bathing the small Jedi in silver-green light, accentuating his natural olive skin. “Enough blood you have spilled. Allow you to kill anyone else, I will not.”

The tiny Jedi leapt from his chair toward the Dark Jedi, hoping to catch him off guard. Taral smiled as the Jedi leapt at him, bringing his lightsaber up in a defensive position he caught the viridian blade and pushed back. Tokare landed feet-first on the ground before leaping up and jumping off a nearby fighter plane, landing above Taral on the wing of a Venom fighter.

“Ataru, eh? Reminds me of a teacher back at the Academy. Rat-faced bitch!” Taral said as he fell back on the Soresu technique.

The form kept the blade close to the body and allowed for quick blocks and short-range strikes. The style was pure defense, meant to wear out a foe and then strike when they became fatigued. Taral watched the Jedi’s every move, waiting for him to make a mistake and leave an opening. The effort left his mind fatigued; the migraines were still present and the bright lightsaber beams and the crackling noises they made when they touched made the pain more intense.

He did everything he could to keep his face from betraying his inner weakness. Master Tokare seemed to believe the feint and in an attempt to end the duel himself, Tokare used the Force to throw his lightsaber at Taral. The blade spun in a circle as it flew through the air, making it look like a disk of green energy. Taral reached out with the Force, grabbing the lightsaber and tossing it aside, only for Tokare to guide it into the support struts and force Taral to dodge the falling starfighters.

Rolling out of the way he switched to the Djem So technique and actively attacked the Jedi Master. It was his preferred attack style, meshing well with his reverse grip and aggressive personality.

_He’s definitely a Master, but something’s off. Jedi aren’t usually this skilled with the blade._

He brought his saber down hoping to kill the helpless Jedi, but instead he was blocked by a beam of silver-green plasma. Rearmed, Tokare managed to hold Taral back with a strength that belied his small frame.

The angles of his blows and the diminutive target he painted were the only advantages he held. For all his strength and skill, Tokare could not sense his opponent’s movements and he was a bit out of practice using only visual cues. It was like fighting a droid; the Force remained silent until just before the blade struck.

Tokare leapt from wing to wing trying to disorient the boy and bring him down. But nothing seemed to work, as yellow and viridian blades clashed and met blow for blow.

Realizing there was no advantage to his height, he jumped down to the floor, leaving himself vulnerable for but a fraction of a second. It was all the time his opponent needed. Before his clawed feet touched the floor, he was hit with a massive wave of Force energy, sending him flying into the hangar wall. The Force wave spread out and pushed apart the fighters on either side of him. The cold duracrete wall splintered from the impact, only his connection to the Force saving him. As his body slumped to the floor, he was struck with a powerful surge of Force lightning.

It was at this moment that the Mandalorians opened fire on Taral who nimbly leapt over one of the fallen Venom fighters, using the Force to roll the ship at the soldiers on the other side. The gunfire died down as the Mandalorians scrambled out of the way – two were unsuccessful. Master Tokare struggled to his feet despite his concussion, and was hit with another surge of Force lightning, another minute of this would kill him utterly.

Two dozen Mandalorian troopers swarmed over the wreckage and opened fire. Taral juked back and forth, evading any blaster bolts he couldn’t deflect before leaping into their ranks and cleanly decapitating one of the soldiers. Those within striking distance unsheathed their vibroblades as they rolled away, trusting the cortosis-weave to protect them from the swirling yellow beam of death. One bold swordsman struck out with his blade and bit into Taral’s side as he was distracted deflecting blaster fire. The combination of blades and blaster bolts succeeded in forcing him to retreat – several burns and cuts marring his skin.

Taral fled behind a pair of heavy-fighters and tripped a swordsman with the Force when he got too close, pulling the man’s blaster pistol into his hand as he spun around and swung at the man’s neck – only to miss as the soldier rolled free. He cursed as another volley of blaster bolts rained down, one of them breaching his defenses and striking him in the thigh as another burned a hole into his hip. He dove behind a broken starfighter, shooting his blaster as he scrambled behind cover. The shots were glancing and ineffectual, but succeeded in forcing the Mandos into cover.

Taral took a moment to catch his breath, his stamina dwindling and his Force energy reserves nearly tapped. The lightning and throws had consumed too much energy, and now he was left to rely on his blade and blaster – exhaustion kept at bay as his frustration and anger fueled the dark side. He cursed his circumstances before he heard the clatter of debris landing nearby. He turned his head and his eyes went wide as he beheld a dozen fragmentation and flashbang grenades not a meter away. Acting on instinct he hit the pile with a tepid push and shielded himself with his forearms.

The explosion sent him flying into the side of a starfighter. The back of his head smashing into the metal as his ears rang and his skin tingled. He pushed himself off and staggered behind another fighter as his position was swarmed with more grenades. Ignoring the mild concussion and shaking off the last of the flashbangs’ effects, he took a page out of Tokare’s handbook and flung his lightsaber toward the ceiling.

Captain Ventralez of Clan Fett watched his men with a critical eye, his defection from the Galactic Alliance gave him insights that would be lost on those born and raised in Mandalorian Space – like when to call it quits. Brute force and numbers would win the day eventually, but victory by attrition would carry too great a cost. This became all the more obvious as the hangar struts gave way and starfighters rained down upon his men. The Captain ordered one of his snipers to subdue the Dark Jedi with a tranquilizer dart. The soldier changed out the standard blaster ammunition with a tranq-dart magazine from his utility belt, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Taral gave a grunt and ripped the dart out of his neck before shooting the Mandalorian who had tried to flank him, the blaster bolt bouncing off the reinforced chestplate. Captain Ventralez cursed as he ordered several more shots fired, but the Dark Jedi was prepared and deflected or dodged the next wave of darts. It was then that he reached out with the Force and strained to drag several starfighters into a defensive wall – only to let out a frustrated curse as the ships refused to budge and even more grenades landed nearby. He stumbled away as the small bombs detonated, not even attempting to push them away.

Ventralez grabbed a tranq-mag and rushed the warrior. The barbs of the darts stuck out the side of the magazine – making it an effective, though crude, delivery system. He leapt around the broken ships strewn in his path, but before he could stab the Dark Jedi, he received a weak bolt of Force lightning to the chest, followed by a blaster bolt to the knee.

“Fucking worthless Mandalorians! You think I’m defenseless?!” Taral spat with unconcealed hatred, “Why won’t you just stay down?!”

A swordswoman came up behind Taral, blade held high and prepared to strike, but before she could strike, he spun around and cut off her hands. She screamed out in pain even as the blaster pistol came up to her forehead.

Captain Ventralez regained his footing and rushed Taral, driving the darts into his neck as the blaster bolt passed through the woman’s skull. Shock and outrage plastered the young man’s pale features as he felt the darts empty their contents into his veins. Captain Ventralez gave a small victorious smile as Taral spun around and brought his lightsaber up in a diagonal backhand strike – the blade cutting through the Captain’s abdomen and severing his left arm.

He crumbled to the floor in three pieces as Taral ripped the darts out of his neck and felt their effects. He stumbled and braced himself with his left hand, vision swimming as his eyelids grew heavy. It would take all his strength and concentration to keep this fight going.  _Have to kill them… freedom before… submission…_

Taral kept fighting despite the fatigue he felt, but he knew it was hopeless. One of the Mandalorians saw an opening and hit him in the back of the head as hard as she could with the butt of her rifle. He dropped to his knees, the damaged tissue from his impromptu surgery screaming at him in quiet agony as it was further inflamed. He grit his teeth through the pain and tried to stand, blocking the follow-up strike with his forearm – only to groan as his left ulna shattered under the force. A snap-kick to the face dropped him belly first to the floor. He tried to repel her with a pulse of energy, but it was barely more than a strong breeze. She struck him in the back of the head one final time, rendering him unconscious. She raised her rifle to crush his skull and avenge the lives of everyone he’d just killed—

“ENOUGH!”

The soldier froze and turned to see Master Tokare struggling to his feet, having regained consciousness.

“He is not to be killed. In solitary confinement he should be,” Tokare said.

The remaining Mandalorians moved to carry out Tokare’s orders. The majority of the reinforcements from throughout the ship had arrived near the end of the battle; with the fighting over, most turned their attention to their dead and wounded brethren, while others worked to clear the broken vehicles and scaffolding.

Tokare looked at the boy as two soldiers picked him up and moved him out of the hangar. There were too many questions that needed to be answered and Javen would be very interested in this boy, if they could subdue him. The old Master reasoned that with a suppression collar the boy would be no threat – they must have made a mistake the first time he was caged.

“Make sure the suppression band is working and attached properly,” Tokare said, as the Mandalorians dragged the boy away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of a Force wound nullifying the effects of a Force suppression collar was brought to my attention after reading the second chapter of “Dark Redemption” by Scythe404 at KotORFanMedia, back when that website was still active. I borrowed the concept and adapted it to my story. I wanted to expand the explanation while simultaneously making no mention of midi-chlorians. Why? Because fuck George Lucas, that’s why. AND because after watching Belated Media’s “What if Star Wars Episode I/II/III was Good?” videos, I consider them to be proper canon. Some people just do it better.
> 
> In the original draft, Taral was an overpowered monster of a Mary Sue. He swatted Tokare aside like nothing and laid waste to the Mandalorians. Ah, memories. It’s shameful to think how pitiful my writing ability was at the time, but thankfully it’s improved. I remember the message rangermike sent back after I gave him the rough draft. He said it was good, but that I had made Tokare far too weak, and he was right. First-time writers make a lot of mistakes. Main character Mary Sues are one of them.
> 
> Another mistake is creating a boring, shallow character. Something the Editing Gang helped me fix. The new and improved Taral is at least 20% less punchable!


	2. Out on Bail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would you say if I told you an evil corporation didn’t want you to see this chapter? That the rough draft for this chapter was flagged as inappropriate in Google Docs and none of the Editing Gang was able to access it until the flag was lifted? Those corporate fat cats at Google couldn’t handle the awesome. I’m standing up to the man and no one can stop me! Come at me, bro!

** Shadow of the Phoenix **

* * *

_Doctor Morus is portrayed by Michael Caine_

_The yuuzhan vong is portrayed by Courtenay Taylor_

_Idelo Onara is voiced by Robin Sachs_

_Eruul’Kiloss is portrayed by Alexander Ludwig_

_Numa’lestin is voiced by Merle Dandridge_

* * *

**457 ABY**

_The din of blaster fire filled the air. A distant shriek echoing down the street. An endless river of silver armor surging through the city._

_A man with salt-and-pepper hair shoved a young boy into a crawlspace. “Get in here! No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, don’t leave this spot.”_

_He closed the hatch and obscured it behind a potted plant as the door behind him slid open and two armored men stepped in with rifles drawn. The man turned and let loose with his flechette launcher, only for his shots to go wide as a dozen blaster bolts caught him in the torso and dropped him face-first to the ground. The plasma burned through flesh and bone, leaving behind a charred, empty hollow where his lower organs once dwelt._

_“Haar veman Mand’alor dinuir be’jatne’vercopa,” one of the men sneered as they approached the prone body._

_The wounded man lay there, unmoving except for the labored rising and falling of his shoulders as he struggled to take a few shallow breaths, wisps of smoke escaping lips between wheezing coughs. His thoughts shifted to his family as his vision blurred and he clenched his hand around the leather handle of his knife. With the last of his strength he slammed the blade into the nearest Mando’s boot and blasted him in the knee with the flechette launcher, pulping ligaments and severing the limb._

_The boy clenched his eyes shut and wept as his ears rang with the sounds of Mandalorian curses and blaster fire._

* * *

A pinch in the arm awoke Taral from his nightmare, only for him to wince at the throbbing of his skull and the onset of a migraine. His vision was befouled with white spots and blurry images, leaving him slightly nauseous. As it cleared, he could see a male doctor taping an IV to his left forearm, the only exposed part of his body aside from his face. His limbs were spread out and held in place by fabric straps, which were then encased in metal sheath paneling.

Six soldiers were arrayed before him in jungle combat gear, green camouflage patterns plastered upon loose-fitting fabric with armored plates covering only the most vital areas. The room they occupied was small and nondescript, some storage closet they’d converted into a holding cell, a barred gate splitting the room in front of him, just in case he tried to escape. Permanent military camps would have a dedicated prison facility, but this was more ad hoc.

The doctor approached, shining a small flashlight in Taral’s eyes, making the latter wince as his stomach turned. “Cut that shit out! You’re gonna make me puke.”

“How do you feel?” the doctor asked in a neutral tone.

Taral ignored the question as he eyed the IV line. “What are you pumping into me?”

“It’s a bacta drip with a secondary line for omezarin.”

“…Liquid ohms?” Taral asked as his thoughts mewled with excitement,  _Kick. Ass._

“Yes,” the doctor said as he gestured to a small machine, “Four hundred fifty milligrams of omezarin will be administered every sixty minutes. Standard dose for Force-sensitives such as yourself.”

“We use these devices when treating burn victims,” a woman said as she approached, bandages marring her face.

Taral appraised the woman with an amused grin. “You look like shit, doc.”

Doctor Tiffan’Staddo narrowed her good eye, the other too swollen to move. “You murdered everyone you encountered, except me. I want to know why.”

“Spur of the moment. You offered kindness, despite your loyalties.” He looked away, almost in shame. “It was unexpected, so I offered my own kindness in return.”

“By smashing my head into the wall?”

He turned back and looked her in the eyes. “By sparing your life. Not that it matters. I refuse to be caged and wait silently for death at the hands of your master.” There was a flash of confusion in the doctor’s eye before it was smothered beneath a calm façade. It was so fast that he questioned whether he’d seen it at all, chalking it up to the migraine. “Kill me or release me, but do not waste my time with Fett’s games.”

She glanced at the other doctor as she spoke, “You said you had a history with Aliit’alor Fett…?”

“Our history is one that will end with his _head_. Any other details are inconsequential.”

“I see, well, I spoke with the Aliit’alor and he had no recollection of you. And unless you frequent Mando’Tra, you’ve never met him.”

“The burnt worlds he leaves in his wake are not limited to Mandalorian Space, _fool_ ,” he spat.

“Wait, are you referring to _Tlon_ Fett? I was speaking of Gustav, his brother,” she said as she watched the bewilderment dance across his eyes, “We do not serve the traitor Fett, we remain loyal to the _true_ Mand’alor,” she said, noting with surprise that the boy became even more agitated at her answer.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep calming breaths. “…Panlie.”

“Y-You know his name?”

The prisoner remained silent, angry amber eyes glaring at the floor. Dr. Staddo peppered him with further questions, but he never spoke again. He never even moved beyond blinking, only glancing up when the Mandalorians locked the barred gate and left the room – leaving two behind to stand guard.

 _Alright. Have to get out of here,_  Taral thought as he glanced at IV pump,  _…Have to ignore the magic medicine machine and focus on killing those two. Actually… I’m not dealing with Fett’s marauders, so if this goes sideways it might be better to just knock them out._ He used the Force to remove the suppression band from around his neck, just as he did aboard the _Gayiyli_. He turned his gaze back to the machine, taking in the glowing orange override button. _Then again… a few extra hits before I leave wouldn’t hurt._ He shook his head in agitation. _What am I thinking? I don’t need it, I_ don’t _need it… okay that’s a lie, I need it, I need it_ a lot _!_

* * *

The guards stood watch over the prisoner, noting with concern his growing smile and flush skin. Then the giggling came and they sent a comm message to the medical staff. The prisoner was licking the restraints by the time Dr. Morus arrived with Master Tokare. The doctor switched out the painkillers for a narcotic detox solution – after several minutes, Taral began to whimper in dismay as the dreamscape faded away.

“Ugh, goddammit,” Taral grumbled, “…the real world.”

“Mm, he should be lucid enough, Master Venra. If there’s nothing else…?” the doctor trailed off.

Taral’s ears perked up at that. _Venra? Could this creature really be Panlie’s master?_

“Thank you, doctor,” Tokare said without hesitation, “appreciated, your assistance is.”

The doctor gave a nod and quickly left the room, leaving Taral encased in his restraints. He felt the emptiness of the suppression collar as he glanced over the half dozen Mandalorians that kept their rifles trained on his face. His bitter glare followed the doctor as he left. “That man is officially my least favorite person here.”

“A recent addition, Dr. Morus is. He operated a clinic on Nar Shaddaa.”

“You’re lettin’ a Shaddaan walk around a military camp? You people are fucked up.”

“Removed your collar, I see. How?”

“Space magic,” he sneered, “Why don’t you just read my mind? Tokare Venra, guru and sage to the one who holds the Heart of the Guardian.”

 _He knows my name, he knows my purpose. But what is his?_ “What is your name, child?”

Taral hesitated, which alias was best for this? Probably one he rarely used. “…Darrben.”

Tokare pursed his wrinkled lips as he inspected the prisoner, he was sure it was a false name, but couldn’t be certain. “Impossible, it should be, to remove that collar. All Force-sensitives radiate energy. Yet you, Darrben, do not. A wound in the Force, you are.”

Taral did not reply, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

“What are your loyalties? A Dark Jedi?” Tokare asked before narrowing his large brown eyes, “Or something more?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean… the Sith are _dead_.”

“Yet here you are.”

The boy let out a ponderous chuckle as his face split into a toothy grin. _A Jedi with a brain… who’d’ve thought._

“Discovered the repository on Felucia, the Sith did. How?”

“Hmm…” Taral hummed as he took stock of the situation, the kernel of a plan taking root, “I’d be willing to trade for such information.”

“A negotiation, this is not. You _will_ tell us what you know.”

“You don’t seem the torturing type. Besides, you saw the scars. If you think you can put me through worse, then be my fucking guest.”

The old Jedi narrowed his eyes and grimaced, waving a claw in front of Taral’s face. “Want to tell me how the Sith discovered Felucia, you do.”

Taral furrowed his brows and willed his mind to remain his own. “Y-You cannot… s-seriously think that will… work on me! Even with this collar my mind is my own, Jedi. _Stay out_.”

Tokare sighed and put a balled fist to his lips as he tapped the edge of his seat with a claw. This… Sith… would be difficult to break. Perhaps a change in tactics was in order. He pulled out a datapad and tapped the screen, summoning Dr. Morus.

The doctor arrived and replaced the detox solution with a new bottle. Taral carefully disabled the suppression collar and tried to read the doctor’s surface thoughts, but was unable to – hearing nothing but a recitation of herbal compounds and their effects. The young Sith grew nervous, these thoughts were mental chaff meant to fend off people like him.

Using the Force, he yanked out the IV and started to bend the metal casing around his body. A quick movement of Tokare’s hand held the metal in place and signaled one of the soldiers to shoot off a stun pulse. Instant vertigo overwhelmed the prisoner as the directed harmonics disrupted his nervous system – bile rising in his throat. The suppression collar was reattached and held in place by another Mandalorian.

Doctor Morus reinserted the IV and pinned it in place with his thumb as a heavy sedative was pumped through the line. Taral thrashed against his restraints, but his resistance gave way as he lost consciousness.

“Master Venra,” the doctor said, “at the minimum dosage for Force-sensitives, we have only two days’ worth of sedatives. If any of the men are injured in the meantime…”

“Enough, it will be,” the old Master said as he scrutinized the suppression collar, “Send for a welding torch.”

* * *

_The boy stumbled out of the wreckage, wheezing as the soot-filled air clogged his lungs. Bodies were strewn about as fires raged across the horizon, the columns of smoke obscuring the sun. He slumped to the ground, tears running down his face in sooty lines._

_He punched the pavement again and again until his knuckles bled. **“A lucid dream this time… If I can punch the ground, I can walk away!”** His body ignored his protestations and curled up in the refuse. **“No, goddammit! I order you to stand!”**_

_His consciousness drifted off, content to join the dead. Hours later he dreamed of the sound of a ship landing, his young self dared to hope it was salvation, even as his older mind rebelled against such naïveté._

_“Sir, got a live one here!”_

_“What have you found?”_

_The human man turned the boy over. “Some kid. Looks half-dead.”_

_The Captain looked over the boy and noted the sickly pallor beneath the soot on his skin. “Stick him in the brig and keep searching the settlement. Bound to be something of value here.”_

**_“Don’t fucking touch me!”_ **

_The boy was dragged to a makeshift prison cell near the galley – little more than a closet with a locking mechanism. There was no furniture, and the fluorescent lights remained inactive. He drifted in and out of consciousness until he felt a slight vertigo as the ship lifted off-world._

_The_ Nackhawn Gambit _was an old YU-820 light-freighter modified to run blockades and smuggle contraband. Narrow corridors of dingy gray metal twisted and turned, connecting tiny rooms to two large cargo bays on the ship’s starboard and port. As the vessel drifted amongst the stars, the cell remained closed and dark. How long had he been confined? An hour? Several? Without a clock or the light of a sun there was no way to know. Exhaustion overtook him once more and the boy drifted off to a fitful sleep._

_He awoke as the door finally opened and revealed a yuuzhan vong woman with jet-black hair tied in a braided ponytail. She was thin and slightly shorter than her captive; no more than a meter and a half. Her pasty-white skin marred in purple and black tattoos – intricate vong symbols which swirled across her flesh. Her ears and nose were pierced, as was her lower lip which held a single looped ring._

_She gave an order in her native tongue, but the boy could not understand._

**_“Fucking hell. Even in a dream I can’t understand this bitch. Speak Basic, chuba!”_ **

_An angry burst of vongish erupted from the woman as she kicked the boy in the ribs and made wild gestures with her hands. The boy finally understood and stumbled to his feet – still recovering from the Ardroxian Flu. It was only worsened by the lack of provisions and sleep, which had both eluded him since the attack._

_The vong attached a collar around his neck and turned a small knob until a green light activated. She gave a sadistic grin and let loose another string of grunts and coughs which the boy still couldn’t comprehend. The vong’s grin disappeared before she punched him in the gut and left him to dry-heave on the floor. She returned a moment later with a small jar, grabbing the boy by the hair as she removed two slugs from the container. The tizowyrms wriggled into his ears, pinning themselves inside with barbed spurs. The boy let out a cry as he clawed at his ears, desperate to staunch the pain even as the vong continued uttering gibberish._

_“—derstand me now?” the vong asked. The boy’s eyes went wide and he forgot the pain. “That’s a slave containment collar around your neck. If you leave the ship or try to take it off, it’ll splatter your pretty little head.”_

_The pirate laughed as she left the cell, the mocking noise abruptly cut off as the door slid shut. The boy sat in complete darkness, gingerly touching his ears. Ignoring the lingering discomfort, he laid down and fell into a nightmare-fueled sleep._

_Hours later, the boy awoke as the cell door opened again. Standing in the doorway was a human holding a blaster pistol. “Get up, fucko!”_

_The boy stumbled to his feet and followed the pirate to the ship’s garage, only to be shoved toward an old baragwin sitting at a workbench. The alien watched the pirate leave before he turned to his new assistant. The boy stood up and brushed off his pants – force of habit, since his clothes were filthy._

_“That was Delan, he’s a fuckin’ arsehole. But I’m sure you already figured that out,” the baragwin said with a smile before placing a lit cigarette in his mouth._

_The boy didn’t answer; he just looked up at the alien before quickly dropping his gaze to the floor. He was frightened._

_“You don’t talk much, do you?” the baragwin asked as he exhaled a cloud of smoke._

_The boy glanced to the side, but remained passive._

_“I don’t blame ya, misspeaking around these arseholes can be painful. Here, this’ll calm your nerves.” The baragwin handed the boy his cigarette._

**_“Idelo, you magnificent bastard.”_ **

_The boy took a hesitant drag before bursting into a coughing fit, much to the baragwin’s amusement._

_“You’ll get used to it, kid. Name’s Idelo,” the baragwin said as he extended his hand. The boy shook the leathery appendage even as he fidgeted with his slave collar. “You should consider yourself lucky. If they had the credits to spare, they’d’ve just given you a lobotomy and a control chip. Now have a seat, you might learn something.”_

_The boy sat on a nearby stool and watched as the old baragwin modified a blaster pistol. It was a dated Mandalorian design – circa 415 ABY – covered in small dings and dents with several areas of mild rust. It had seen better days, but in the hands of a master weaponsmith the old blaster could be transformed into a formidable sidearm._

* * *

The metal glowed a bright orange before dimming to a dull red and finally a black charred gray – a splash of water cooled the slag-covered weld line. The mechanic pulled away the flame-retardant padding that protected the Sith’s skin from blistering against the blazing metal and stepped back as the other Mandos moved in to reattach the head restraints.

Master Tokare tuned them out and kept his eyes firmly shut. The drugs made it easier to probe the boy’s mind, though there was odd sort of déjà vu he couldn’t place it. Something about the mental architecture seemed vaguely familiar, even though only his surface thoughts were available. The old Jedi felt pain and fear, and saw tortures and petty torments heaped upon a fragile young mind. There was a happiness when the baragwin appeared, but also an underlying sense of loss.

But what Tokare felt most keenly of all… was foreboding.

* * *

_The boy was pulled from his cell, the vong woman shoving him toward the bow of the ship. They passed a pair of trandoshans sitting at the dejarik table in the main hold, each one hissing in amusement as the boy was pushed along._

_The vong keyed the lock on a door and pushed him inside. As first mate, she was afforded the luxury of personal quarters. The room was not particularly large – most of it taken up by a bed with blood-red sheets and a dark wood frame – but it did possess a décor that was sorely lacking in the rest of the ship. Vong-style furniture peppered the studio, and the walls held frames of various works of macabre art._

_“Alright, kid, strip.”_

_The boy just stared at her with wide eyes, unsure of what he should do. He did not move, nor did he make any attempt to speak his objection._

_“I told you to strip!” the vong shrieked as she slapped the boy across the face, opening a stinging welt on his cheek._

**_“I’m not gonna stand here and listen to this tatted cunt! Body, I order you to grab the knife from the drawer and cut this bitch!”_ **

_The boy meekly removed the filthy, tattered remains of his clothes and left them on the floor. Seemingly disconnected from reality, he just stood there without even covering his body in embarrassment._

_The woman appraised him for a moment before frowning. “No scars, we’ll have to work on that. Now lie down on the bed.”_

**_“No! Stop! Fight back, damn you! This bitch is forty kilos soaking wet!”_ **

_The boy did as he was told. Lying on his back as the vong woman approached and roughly grabbed his forearms, sharp nails biting into his flesh as she attached cuffs to his wrists and hooked them to the wall, doing something similar to his ankles. With her victim fully restrained, the vong began to strip off the meager garments which barely covered her nethers._

**_“Get away from me, you gaunt nutjob!”_ **

_“Don’t look so sad, kid; you might just enjoy this,” she said as she pulled a small knife from the drawer and climbed into bed, “but hopefully not too much.”_

_It started slow, with teasing trails of her tongue followed by teasing trails with the tip of the knife. Shallow cuts followed by odd pleasure as her head inched lower. Then the cuts became deeper and the woman mounted the boy._

_The vong gyrated even as she bent to lick blood from the shallow cuts on the boy’s clavicle, bucking harder against him as the copper flavor washed over her tongue. The odd violation, the mix of pain and pleasure… he almost didn’t notice the true violation. In his periphery sat a small green figure, watching with the rapt attention of a voyeur. Fury built within the boy’s elder mind as he reconstructed his mental walls and defenses._

**_“Be gone, Jedi!”_ ** _he screamed as wisps of oily smoke curled around Master Tokare’s limbs and dragged him into the shadows and out of the room._

_With the Jedi gone, the boy took note of the building pressure in his gut. He let out a scream as the world was bathed in white before all went dark around him._

* * *

Taral thrashed against his bindings as visions of his past danced across his mind’s eye, heedless of his mental objections. With a final hard jolt, he awoke and the vong woman melted away and all that was left was his more contemporary prison.

He looked over at his guards as one of them tapped the side of his helmet to report that the prisoner was conscious. Taral ignored them as he touched his collar with the Force… only to remain impotent.

_The fuck?_

He’d practiced the technique for months and this was the first time he’d failed since mastering it. He kept trying – and failing – even as the barred gate was opened.

Doctor Morus took in the Sith’s frustrated expression and gave a sardonic smile. “The mechanism was welded together. There’s no escape for you now.”

Taral ground his teeth before letting out a hiss, “…Clever.” He closed his eyes and gave a calming breath, even as a gentle hum reached his ears and he beheld Master Tokare upon his hoverchair. Taral’s eyes glowed a pale yellow as he grit his teeth even harder and willed himself to control the coming outburst. “A man’s mind is his sanctuary.”

“A prisoner, you are. You have no rights.”

“And you think you can just peruse my mind to your heart’s content? Fuck you, Jedi!”

“Your objections are a bit hypocritical. Did you not offer to let me read your thoughts?”

“I was fucking joking!”

“You should work on your timing then,” Tokare replied with a bemused scrunch of his lips, “Would you not do as I have done if reversed were the roles?”

“Equivocation? I’m a Sith… you’re supposed to be better than me.”

“I am better than you, that’s why in chains you are.”

“ ‘Might makes right’ hardly sounds like a Jedi philosophy.”

Tokare’s mouth upturned into a sneer. “Reading thoughts is common practice, no different than listening for those like us. Privacy is a virtue only to those who can defend their thoughts.”

“Hehehe, hard to believe the Order is so corrupt. This galaxy is a Sith’s playground, you people play by the same rules and want to pretend it’s different.”

“We fight for justice.”

“While trampling the rights of lesser peoples. I know plenty of dictators who do the same damn thing, but at least their victims can find sanctuary in their own minds.”

“And what do you fight for? You seek to control and persecute. You violate everything in your quest for dominance. You have no right to judge.”

“Don’t I? You’re the one claiming the moral high ground. The Sith are at least honest with themselves. Your Code is hypocrisy made mantra.”

Tokare furrowed his brow, he’d never considered… “You may be right, Sith, but certain sacrifices must be made to protect the galaxy from the darkness you bring. If that makes us less than what we aspire to… then so be it. We will continue this another time. Done are we.”

Taral watched the Jedi float away, huffing in annoyance at being alone again. Jedi morals were an alien thing, but it was interesting to debate. An hour later he was starting to doze off when he heard the barred gate clang open and watched three Mandalorians approach.

One of the Mandos pressed a button and the metal sheath around Taral’s midsection retracted. He grit his teeth and tensed his abdominals as each of the Mandos took turns punching him in the stomach. His defiant glare led to a number of shocks with the stun batons. The electricity set his nerves on fire as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably; a follow-up gut punch left him gasping for air.

Taral hacked up a glob of blood before sneering, “You punch like a cunt!”

“Big talker. If those manacles weren’t holding you up, you’d be on your knees.”

Taral grinned. “Doubtful… since I’m not your mother last nigh—” The wind was knocked out of him as the Mando punched him in the stomach before jamming the stun baton into the crook of his neck and giving him a quick jolt. As the tension in his muscles subsided, Taral gave a haggard, hacking cough before it turned into a deep chuckle. “I won’t be in this cage forever… so you’d better kill me.”

The guard stomped his foot into Taral’s sternum, leading to another round of hacking bloody coughs. The guard gave a small grunt before pressing the button which re-engulfed the prisoner in sheets of steel. One of the Mandos took a rag and wiped the blood from Taral’s face before they left the cell.

Taral watched them leave, heavy breathing the only sound in his ear as he glared with amber eyes at the two guards who remained behind to watch him. Finally, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, ignoring the lingering pain in his gut.

**—One Hour Later—**

A small metal cart was wheeled into the cell, a metal dome atop it. Taral’s muscles tensed as he eyed the cart. This was new… and worrisome. And when the lid was removed he beheld the most insidious instrument of torture he could imagine.

Wafts of flavorful marinade and pungent spices filled the cell as the guards removed their helmets and ate the bounty of delectable morsels displayed on the tray.

Taral clamped his nasopharynx shut, forcing himself to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the food. After a minute, one of the guards noticed and put a strip of adhesive tape across it. It didn’t matter that the food was likely repurposed MREs, Taral was starving, and his stomach roared in agitation.

The Mandos ignored him, content to eat their food and converse in their native tongue. When the meal was finished, they cleaned up and removed the table, before ripping off the tape from Taral’s mouth and returning to their posts.

* * *

It had been about twenty minutes since his tormentors had left, and Taral was starting to miss them. Sure, they spent most of their time beating him, but it was far less boring than staring into the shadows, or glaring at his silent, statuesque guards.

“Babababaaa, ba da baaa…” Taral hummed and clicked a disjointed melody to pass the time, stopping as the door slid open and another Mando entered. “Fucking hell, what now?”

He watched as the newcomer and the guards conversed in Mando’a, arching an eyebrow as the guards left and the newcomer approached him. The Mando pulled off his helmet, his skin was tan and his hair was buzzed flush, but it was his eyes that were most captivating. They were bloodshot and weary, the discolored bags beneath lent an almost haunted look to his appearance.

“Come to slap me around like your friends? Or you gonna stand there like a wooden tusken all day?”

The Mandalorian didn’t say a word, he simply drew his blaster pistol and pushed the barrel against Taral’s forehead just beneath the restrainment strap.

“Huh…” _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shiiit!_ “…that escalated quickly.”

Gloved fingers flexed and caressed the trigger. All the muscles in the man’s face were tense as he finally spoke, “Ifa’Kiloss.”

Taral cocked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“My sister… she was on the _Gayiyli_.”

 _Fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck._ Taral gave a nervous gulp. _Okay, think, how the fuck do I talk my way out of this? Mandalorian, honor bound, emotionally unstable… fuck me._

“You don’t even remember her, do you?!” the Mandalorian screamed as frustrated tears trickled from his eyes and the barrel bit into Taral’s skin, “She was sent back in pieces, demagolka! And now… now I’m gonna even the score.”

Taral did his best to keep a steady gaze, though he felt sweat collecting on his head restraints. “You’re wrong, I do remember. She pegged me with a flashbang and stabbed me in the side. Strong woman. Never once flinching… fighting to the bitter end.”

“She had more to offer the world! You snuffed her out! She died like… like…”

“She died as any true Mandalorian would,” Taral intoned, his voice taking on a sympathetic cadence, “with her head held high.”

The man’s shoulders sank and his hand quivered. “I don’t know what to do… I don’t know what is right…”

“You are Mandalorian, you do as honor demands. And honor demands fealty to the Mandalore.”

The man’s brow furrowed as his sense of duty clashed with his need for vengeance. A back-and-forth tug-of-war played out on his face, neither side gaining the upper hand—

“Away put your weapon! This prisoner is not to be killed!” Master Tokare declared as he entered the cell with another Mandalorian in tow.

The man hesitated, he grit his teeth and let out a frustrated groan. He wanted so badly to kill the prisoner, but honor and duty finally won out, and he holstered his blaster.

 _Oh thank god._ Taral breathed a sigh of relief and favored Tokare with a smile. “Thanks for the help, Jedi,” he said, before turning a patronizing sneer to the distraught Mandalorian, “If he had killed me, I wouldn’t be able to refill his mother’s water dish later tonight.”

The man’s face scrunched up in confusion before he was overtaken by rage and screamed out as he redrew his blaster, only to have it fly out of his hand and into Tokare’s. Disarmed, but still inconsolable, the man started wailing on Taral face with his clenched fist. He might have beaten him to death if the other Mandalorian hadn’t restrained his arm.

“Eruul! Enough! Return to your post,” the newcomer commanded.

Eruul’Kiloss ripped his arm away and stormed off in a huff. Taral watched him leave with a laugh, though it was quickly replaced by a groaning cough, blood pouring from a broken nose. He licked his lips and spit out a crimson glob, smiling with red-stained teeth.

“So quick to anger.” He wiggled his nose to try and relieve the pain, but it wasn’t enough. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to pull on my nose a bit? He kinda… aw, never mind.”

Tokare ignored the request as he floated over. “You have my apologies for Eruul’s behavior. He is in mourning.”

Taral narrowed his eyes. “Seems like a lot of your men are ‘in mourning.’ ”

“Many were killed during your escape. There is much bad blood.”

“Yeah, I’d say I’ve spit out a pint of it so far,” Taral sneered, “You’ve neutered me, Master Jedi… So why am I still chained?”

“A threat, you remain,” the Jedi explained, before adding, “and I have questions.”

“ ‘Threat’ is debatable, as you’ve just seen. I have neither the Force nor my blade,” Taral said as he narrowed his eyes, “I will answer nothing until I am released from this damnable cage!”

Tokare stared at him for a time, gauging the Sith’s motives. Finally, he gave a small wave of his hand and the restraints began to pull away. Taral stumbled out of the contraption, stretching sore muscles and popping stiff joints. He reached up and tugged on his nose, wincing as the cartilage snapped back into place.

“Huh, should’ve asked sooner.” As he took a step forward, there was a tug in his gut and he fell to the floor with a yelp. Taral looked down at his groin and saw a tube protruding from the leg of his underpants, “A catheter?! Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Doctor Morus approached and seized the tube before wrenching it free. Taral gave a grunt of pain, but his body took on a relieved posture as he stood up and gingerly rubbed his crotch, That’s when he noticed the metal gauntlets and greaves which clung tightly to his wrists and ankles – mag-shackles. Beneath the left gauntlet was a latticework of printed polymers with a small power source attached to it, the 3D printed cast could vibrate to encourage the healing of his shattered ulna.

“Curious, I am, of Sith infiltration of the Jedi Order,” Master Tokare said, drawing the boy’s attention from his arm.

Taral glanced at the nearby doctor instead and addressed him, “Hey, dickhead. How long will it take for my head wound to heal?”

The man cocked a silver eyebrow at the question. “The skull fractures will take months to heal completely, but any pain or swelling should be gone within a week. Though that doesn’t account for your concussion.”

“Mm, well, that’s a problem. My brain’s a little fuzzy right now.” The old Jedi’s eyes narrowed as he listened to the boy. “Maybe once it’s healed I’ll—”

Taral was flung to his hands and knees before the Jedi’s hoverchair, his tender arm creaking under the strain. With one hand, Tokare held the boy in place with the Force while with the other, he willed the broken plates to stitch and mend while also alleviating the mild bruising on the boy’s brain itself. Even the pain in his arm faded as the fractured bone was knit together and strengthened.

“Yes, yes… _now_ it’s coming back to me,” Taral said with a smile as he was finally allowed to stand, rubbing his left forearm as he did, “Well, I can’t get too specific – I wasn’t part of the intelligence group – but I know for a fact there are agents throughout the Order. There were rumors of a Master on the Council, but it was never confirmed. Could be the rumors were for Undien.”

The old Jedi cocked an eyebrow at that. “Master Undien is a Sith?” _That might explain his disposition._

Taral actually chuckled at the suggestion. “The Sith have plenty of braindead numbskulls as it is, but even he would be too much. As it stands, he’s nothing more than a useful tool. Like I said, the rumors might have been about him, but it wouldn’t surprise me if there were Sith agents actually _sitting_ on the Council.”

“Troubling is this,” Tokare said as he contemplated his next question, “What is the structure of the Sith? A sizeable order, I assume.”

Taral gave a grunt of agitation. “Yeah. They build upon a weak foundation in hopes that their numbers can combat the Jedi. It is a doomed creed.”

“How so?” Tokare asked as he pondered the opaque response.

“The dark side breeds resentment and avarice, the weak will turn on the strong… It is inevitable.”

“And you disagree with this?”

“Anyone who understands the nature of the dark side would disagree.”

 _Could he be a Banite?_ Tokare wondered as he eyed the boy. “And how many Sith _should_ there be?”

Taral smiled, a push in the right direction might lay the groundwork for a future alliance. “Less.”

Tokare took in the answer, it was vague, but held an opportunity. A Sith double agent would be invaluable. “Who leads the Sith?”

“A Dark Lord known only as ‘Karorm.’ He’s reclusive, works through intermediaries and subordinates. I’ve never seen the man, nor have any of the non-Masters,” Taral smoothly replied, twisting the truth on his tongue, “Is he human? Alien? I don’t know.”

Master Tokare hummed to himself, processing that little tidbit. Could be useful, if there were any truth to it. It was difficult to determine from intuition alone, the dark side clouded everything. Best to check the name against the scattered intel they’d gathered over the years. The Jedi asked another question, and another. The back-and-forth went on for half an hour – every answer was vague, but plausible. Bringing the interrogation to a close, the Jedi summoned one of the guards before he departed alone.

The guard approached, features hidden, but tone filled with contempt. “Master Tokare has instructed me to show you to your… _quarters_. You will be under armed guard at all times. You will not be allowed any privacy for any reason. You may not possess metal or anything else that may be used as a weapon. Those shackles will be worn at all times; any attempt to unlock them will be viewed as a provocation.”

Taral followed the guard outside into the humid air of Dxun – a world of forest and predators, where life struggled and only the strong and cunning survived. To the young Sith, it felt like home.

The sky had a strange tinted appearance, that’s when he noticed the steel I-beams rising into the sky, holding aloft a mesh screen – it was a holographic canopy shroud, a massive projection which could camouflage the entire camp. The perpetually overcast skies released a gentle rain which passed through the hologram without pause, clinging only to the mesh screen before falling in large droplets. It drenched the landscape in a sheen of warm water, adding to the circular ponds which dotted the grounds and the spring-fed waterfalls which poured from the small mesas scattered about. Taral took in the sights and smells of a world he’d only ever heard of in the histories.

The soldier led Taral to a small hut nearby, the metal door sliding open as they approached. The room was no more than two by three meters and contained little more than a fluorescent light in the ceiling and a small cot against the right wall.

In the middle of the cot were two MRE packets and a pile of clothes – three sets of black and gray casual wear, neatly folded and stacked. He tore open one of the MREs and stuffed the contents into his mouth even as he stripped out of his ratty Jedi apparel. Taral grabbed a set of clothes and quickly dressed himself – struggling at times to force the mag-shackles through the sleeves and pant legs. The Mandalorian BDU, black pants and a dark gray, short-sleeved shirt, was loose-fitting for easy movement, but snug enough so that he did not swim in the fabric. He then donned a pair of gray socks and grabbed the black combat boots near the door.

He finished the first MRE and started on the second before pushing past his minders and stepping back outside. He reached out with the Force as best he could, but couldn’t sense anything more than two meters away. He could see soldiers milling about, some cleaning weapons or assembling communication relays, others patrolling for cannoks and maalraas.

His minders informed him that his movements would be restricted, and one of the few places he was allowed free range was the exercise terminal. The gym area was sparse and mostly deserted – a handful of off-duty soldiers were using dumbbells and a leg press. Two more appeared to be in a pull-up competition, their pace all the more impressive with the hexagonal gravity plates beneath their feet. Taral took in the sights and the stale, humid air with mild nostalgia. He _hated_ to exercise like this, but it was necessary – mechanical augmentation stymied the flow of the Force.

He approached a bench press and set the weight at thirty-six kilos to warm up. The cables moved smoothly as he pushed against the bar. He returned it to its cradle and increased the weight to ninety kilos – his previous maximum – but found this weight to be mild as well. He increased the weight again, finding a comfortable burn at one hundred thirty kilograms. He’d been concerned that his muscles would have atrophied in the missing year, but instead, his strength had increased significantly.

He spent the next hour testing each muscle group and found that they had all improved. His stamina was up as well – convenient, since it tended to atrophy amongst Force-users.

After he finished wiping away his sweat and chowing down on another MRE, he wandered around the camp, cataloguing building placement and routes of escape. Then something caught his eye near the edge of the camp, a small supply kiosk. Toiletries, foodstuffs… but what really got his attention as he and his minders approached were the various cigarettes on the upper shelf.

“Gimme a pack of smokes.”

The clerk just crossed his arms and glared. “You have no business walking around free, even under guard. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sell anything to you.”

Taral’s smile slowly disappeared. “I could levitate a goddamn aircraft carrier; I’m more than capable of tearing you to pieces.”

“I’d like to see you try, shabuir. What with that collar on your neck.”

Even without the Force at his command his eyes changed their hue to a glittering amber as he shook with impotent rage. “Listen, I have money. I will… _happily_ … pay for it if I must.”

“Pass.”

“Fucker, I will drop a fortune on you if I have to! I _need_ a cigarette.”

“Leave, Darjetii. Your money is no good here.”

Taral hissed in frustration and made to leave with his minders in tow, only to reach in and grab a pack of cigarettes and sprint away. He tore at the packaging, spilling tabac-filled paper sticks on the ground – only to smash them beneath his sprinting feet. He managed to keep two in hand and tried desperately to light them with what little Force he could exercise.

It might have worked, but for his minders. At a simple signal the mag-shackles activated and slammed together at the wrists and ankles, and then the joined pairs slammed into themselves and Taral became a mockery of a hogtied animal. He clutched the cigarettes tightly even as his face bit into the soil and his minders and the clerk approached – the latter using the opportunity to kick and stomp the immobile prisoner with impunity.

**—Two Hours Later—**

Taral watched the HoloNet broadcast from his gurney in the medical tent. It was a report on the growing unrest in Bothan Space. It was the only channel he was permitted to watch, the insipid twenty-four-hour news cycle grinding his patience into dust.

“Ugh, this is so fucking boring,” he groaned as he turned to his ever-present guards, “I’ll happily mod some guns for you if it will bring an end to this tedium.”

One of his guards grunted in indignation. “Everything’s in the armory and that’s where it will stay. You can’t be trusted, even crippled as you are.”

Taral growled in agitation as he pushed himself up, his bruised ribs screaming in protest. “Take out the ammo then! Listen, I studied under a baragwin; if I can’t smoke, the least you could do is let me improve your fucking weapons.”

“Hmph. Looking to spy on us?”

“As if there aren’t agents at every level of society, get real.”

The Mando sighed, but finally acquiesced. “I’ll run this past Master Tokare before we agree to it. You’ll be under watch the entire time.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. As if I could forget.”

“We might just let you have a cigarette if you do a decent job,” the other guard added snidely.

After receiving permission from the Jedi Master, Taral’s guards led him to a medium-sized building near the communications array. Weapons hung on the walls, munitions were neatly organized on tables and shelves, and there was even a secure cabinet on the far side of the room filled with explosives. Against the back wall was a large workbench covered with spare parts and tools. The bench had five stools lined up in front of it, but it could have easily accommodated ten.

Taral grabbed a blaster rifle from a nearby rack and brought it over to the workbench, mindful of the watchful eyes of his guards. He clamped it in a vice mount and realigned the barrel and scope. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small radio. He turned it on before immediately turning it off with a scowl.

“You Mandalorians have shit taste in music. Not a single decent jam in your whole fucking culture.”

“Our anthems and battle songs are a proud tradition,” the lead guard responded indignantly.

Taral was dismissive as he went about adjusting the rifle’s stock, “Then be _proud_ and be _lame_ , because that’s exactly what your music is… lame.”

The Mandalorian narrowed his eyes behind his visor before moving toward the radio and turning it back on while staring at the prisoner. A growl was met with an increase in the music’s volume. The Mandalorian Union national anthem echoed off the walls and out into the camp.

“You petty little bastard! Turn that shit off right now!”

The Mandalorian ignored the command, choosing instead to stomp one foot and sing along. The other guards quickly joined in and belted out proudly in Mando’a.

Taral clenched his fists and grit his teeth before turning away and slamming his palms onto the counter. _I should rip this collar off and tear that motherfu— No, get a grip and do what you do best, Taral. Bite your fucking tongue._

He replaced several components, including the internal targeting hard drive, while the Mandos continued to sing and draw in others from outside. He reconnected several electrical wires and circuits before reattaching the rifle’s polymer casing. He gave the weapon a onceover before tossing it to the lead Mandalorian who inspected it even as he finished singing the final verse.

“I increased the energy output; the blaster bolts should be able to punch through hardened, ceramic armor now. But the increased energy draw will cause it to overheat pretty quickly, so I added a helix heatsink which can pop out the side and spin to vent the heat.”

The Mandalorian looked over the rifle with a curious gaze. Those mods were illegal in Alliance and Imperial Space – and a Tier 3 permit or higher was required in Mandalorian Space. Despite himself, the Mandalorian found a begrudging respect for the Sith’s abilities.

“I also added fluid-recoil dampeners and recalibrated the targeting matrix. Now,” Taral started as he threw the hydrospanner down and leaned forward with both hands on the table, “give me a fucking cigarette.”

The Mandalorian turned the weapon over, and over again, inspecting it for flaws and finding none. Shipping it to his back, he pulled out his pistol and removed its power cell. “How about you mod this sidearm first, then we’ll discuss remuneration.”

Taral’s eyes turned a deep amber as he grit his teeth and looked back at the chronometer on the wall. _Two hours jumping through fucking hoops for these animals!_ He took a deep breath and accepted the pistol before taking his seat. _It’s the fucking_ Gambit _all over again._

* * *

The warm breeze caught the folds of an ebony cloak as an outsider walked through the camp with a purposeful stride, black boots digging into damp soil. Despite the bulk of the robes, they clung to a distinctly feminine frame – a pair of black pants and a white tunic with a blue belt from which a lightsaber hung on the right hip.

One of the guards stopped her at the door to the armory. “Ma’am, this is a restricted area, please vacate the premises.”

Jedi Knight Numa’lestin drew back her hood, releasing her lekku into the warm air. She had a swarthy complexion, not unlike the humans of Tatooine, and brilliant blue eyes, which were unusual for a twi’lek. Her red lips formed a frown as she leaned back on one leg and crossed her arms.

“It wasn’t restricted an hour ago,” she replied as she lifted her chin in defiance, “I left something behind and I’ve come back for it.”

“Describe what you lost and we will retrieve it for you.”

“No. It is my property, _Jedi_ property. I will not allow you or yours to abscond with it.”

“If you are not willing to cooperate, Jetii, then it’s time for you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, _Mandalorian_.”

The guards glanced at each other before the silent one clicked the comm-link in his helmet. Numa tried to eavesdrop, but she had no fluency in Mando’a. The communication continued for a minute until the soldier nodded his helmet. “Ru’suvarir,” the Mando said as he closed the comm channel, “Boss says ‘no.’ ”

Numa narrowed her eyes. “I’m not leaving.”

“That’s fine, neither are we.”

**—Three Hours Later—**

Numa rocked back-and-forth on her feet, she wasn’t willing to walk away from this, but she desperately needed to use the camp latrine. The longer she stood there, glaring into the empty black T-visors of the Mandalorians, the more she entertained the thought of drawing her blade. In the end, she held herself in check and continued to glare. She was about to give in and leave when the Mandos started to move toward her.

“Hey! What the hell?!”

The men pushed her to the side as the armory door opened. Her anger evaporated as she watched another pair of Mandalorians escort a bruised and battered man from within. She took in his bandaged nose and blackened eye as he limped past, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before he continued on. That’s when she noticed an all too familiar collar around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, time sure does fly when you’re reading the greatest story ever written… Have you ever heard that expression? Time flies when you’re reading, without a doubt, the greatest literary masterpiece in human history! Bit of a clunky slogan, but it fits.
> 
> So, I suspect it was the vong/young!Taral rape scene that triggered the Google censors, but I don’t know for sure. Didn’t seem too extreme to me, but I’m fucked up.
> 
> Character Concepts:
> 
> Numa  
> I can’t recall when I decided to add Numa to the story. I based her appearance off of the female twi’lek Exile mod at KotOR filefront (Female_Twilek_Exile_Appearance;75052).


	3. Jackrabbit Parole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m legitimately shocked I finished this as quickly as I did. All my love and appreciation to the Editing Gang; they didn’t write anything, but they sure as shit get my brain turning.

** Shadow of the Phoenix **

* * *

_O-Vhu Tar is voiced by Martin Freeman_

_Mirta’Parr is portrayed by Zoe Saldana_

_Lieutenant Bulla is portrayed by Jennifer Lawrence_

_Kal’Onasi Ordo is portrayed by Daniel Radcliffe_

* * *

**457 ABY**

The cafeteria building was perhaps fifteen meters square, the largest one outside of the hybrid command center/hangar to the west. As it was between meals, the place was practically deserted, with only two tables occupied. A single attendant stood behind the counter on the far wall, leaning back with a look of abject boredom on his face. This was the sight that greeted Taral and his guards as they entered through the open-air breezeway.

He quietly chuckled as everyone inside took note of him.

Every single Mandalorian in the mess hall turned and glared. Distilled hatred swirled around the room and if he could feel the Force he would have drunk it up like a fine, though slightly sour, wine. The mess hall attendant didn’t move from his position against the wall, even as the newcomers approached. Taral ignored him and gazed at the surprisingly large menu hanging on the wall.

_Let’s see if I can remember this correctly._

He placed an order for cannok steak and a side of stir-fried protatoes, plus a warm blumfruit muffin and a pint of ne’tra gal. It was everything his tormentors had eaten in front of him earlier. He also ordered a bottle of tihaar – little more than potable paint thinner – because why the hell not?

“Here’s the _Darjetii’s_ order,” the mess attendant said into the kitchen microphone with disgust.

“You told him it was for me. He gonna spit in it now?”

The attendant rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We take too much pride in our work here to sully it with pettiness.”

Taral narrowed his eyes, not believing a word of it. The fact that one eye was black and swollen only reinforced his feelings.

“Ugh, fine. Don’t spit in the Darjetii’s food.”

_“Roger that, holding spit.”_

Taral and his minders made their way to one of the nearby tables to wait. Ten minutes later the mess hall attendant announced that his order was ready. He stumbled out of his chair – a bit uneasy on his bruised and battered legs – and sauntered over to the counter, a slight hitch in his step as he grabbed the tray and brought it back to the table. The food looked and smelled divine, despite its humble origins as repurposed MREs and dehydrated beef. Small branches of steam rose from the steak. Red, irony juices flowing free as he cut into it with his plastic knife and fork. Combined with the buttery protatoes, the meal was perfect. He chased his first bite with a swig of sticky-sweet ale.

After five minutes, only the blumfruit muffin and tihaar remained. As he bit into the muffin, he heard a nearby commotion and saw the Jedi he’d passed outside near the armory. He took in her relatively modest robes which, beyond their dark coloration, were no different from those of any other Jedi.

 _A twi’lek that isn’t dressed like a whore, now I’ve seen everything,_ Taral thought as his eyes roamed over her, _Prim and proper bitch like that’ll be putty in my hands. Get her tits down and ass up in no time._

He cocked an eyebrow, idly wondering why she wasn’t doused in sweat from wearing something so bulky in the middle of a jungle. Was it Force projection or something more mechanical? Maybe a climate controlled slim-form armor suit underneath?

“Why is this man wearing a suppression collar and shackles?” Numa demanded as she approached the table and crossed her arms.

Taral took in her tone and felt amusement bubble up inside him. _Ooh… an opportunity presents itself. Is she sympathetic? Maybe… can’t tell yet, but she doesn’t seem to trust her hosts. Hmm… how to turn that to my advantage?_

The guard’s grip tightened on his rifle as he rested a finger on the trigger. “This doesn’t concern you, Jetii. _Leave_.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

“You will not be told again,” the guard warned, his body tense.

Numa stared into the blank features of the Mando’s helmet. “If you won’t answer me, maybe _he_ will.” She pushed past the soldier and sat down at the table, heart thumping in her chest. She was confident they wouldn’t shoot her, she was here on Master Skywalker’s behest after all, but she was still uneasy. “Greetings. My name is Numa’lestin, I’m a Jedi Knight,” she said, “What’s your name?”

Taral lowered his gaze to the floor. “D-Darrben.”

“Do not speak to the prisoner, Jetii,” the Mando warned.

Numa glared at the guard before turning a calming smile on the man she was speaking to. “It’s okay, you can talk to me. Can I ask you some questions?”

He took a hesitant bite of his muffin, but remained silent.

“Why are you in chains?”

His eyes darted around the room, settling on the Mandalorians and their clenched fists before flicking back to Numa. When he finally spoke, it was in a hushed and frantic tone. “They… they kidnapped me, weeks ago.”

“Do not speak your lies, Darjetii!” the Mandalorian admonished, glaring as Taral flinched like a scared animal, “You cannot trust him, Jetii. He murdered our people and will say anything to escape!”

Numa’s eyes narrowed at the Mando’s sharp rebuke and warning – they were hiding something. She’d spent hours poring over the HoloNet for any information on the Mandalorians as a people, unfortunately, there wasn’t much available. Three hundred years of isolation from the rest of the galaxy and all anyone knew were their old stereotypes as thugs and criminals. It was incredibly frustrating, but then again, they weren’t exactly doing anything to refute those stereotypes. She knew then that she had to help this man.

“I’m a Mind Walker, Master Jedi,” Taral whispered in her ear-cone, “Th-They want me to unlock the Sith ruins on—”

One of the guards grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him to the ground. The shackles on his wrists and ankles coming to life and slamming together as the magnets activated.

Taral screamed out in exaggerated pain, “The Sith are evil! I won’t help you learn their secre—”

“Ne’johaa!” the Mando screamed as he pistol-whipped the young man.

Numa leapt up from the table and ignited her orange lightsaber. “Unhand him, you—”

Her threat died on her lips as a stun bolt from behind pulsed through her nervous system. She collapsed in a heap, her lightsaber clanging to the floor, inactive. She could only watch as the barbarous Mandalorians dragged their prisoner out of the mess hall.

* * *

On the outskirts of the camp, near an array of communications antennae, a pair of mismatched individuals was in deep discussion over the intricacies of certain galactic affairs. Some words were heated, while others were agreeable, but no matter the tone, neither could bring themselves to fully agree with the other.

“You’re blind if you think Shaheme is a better racer. Thrblin is clearly superior!” the Mandalorian scoffed.

The cerean Jedi merely shook his head in disagreement. “He’s certainly won more races, my friend, but quantity is not the same as quality. Head-to-head, Shaheme beats Thrblin every time.”

“They’ve only had two head-to-head races though. Thrblin has won fourteen grands prix to Shaheme’s three. It’s not even a fair comparison.”

“He has the heart and drive to be the best. Every race he’s lost has been due to equipment failure and crashes,” the Jedi said with a shrug.

“Then he needs a better crew!” the Mando replied with a dismissive gesture, “As for the crashes, half the skill needed is in avoiding them. Podracing’s no joke, that’s why there’s at least one death every race.”

“And Shaheme has survived numerous—” the cerean cut himself off as a familiar twi’lek stormed past in a huff, “Knight Lestin, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?” she said as she whipped her head around, “O-Vhu, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Anything you want to talk about? I sense… anger.”

Numa gave a sigh and shook her head, glancing toward O-Vhu’s Mandalorian companion. “Can we talk in private?”

“Sure,” he said as he turned to the Mando, “This conversation is not over, Mirta.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mirta said with a wave as she walked away.

The two Jedi slowly made their way to the edge of the camp, still beneath the canopy shroud and at least ten meters from the edge of the forest. Neither of them spoke until they were as far from the camp as they could get. Numa wrung her hands together and kicked at the grass, O-Vhu took this in with a furrowed brow. She hadn’t been this agitated in years and it was strange for him to see.

“I was on my way to speak with Master Venra,” she finally said, “I’m concerned about these Mandalorians.”

“Concerned in what way? They’ve been quite amenable to us, even though we’re strangers to them.”

Numa hesitated. “I found a man today… chained and abused… a prisoner of theirs. A captive.”

“Found him where?”

“He was in the armory, but I didn’t meet him until they brought him to the cafeteria to eat. O-Vhu, they put a Force suppression collar on him. He said he’s a Mind Walker. That they’d kidnapped him and were using him to unlock Sith ruins.”

“You spoke to him alone?”

“No. His guards were there. They beat him in front of me and told me he was lying. It was sickening to watch.”

O-Vhu furrowed his brow. “Did you not try to stop them?”

She nodded her head before clenching her fists. “They turned their guns on me and hit me with a stun pulse.”

“They attacked you?”

“Yeah,” she said with a quiet nod.

O-Vhu hesitated, knowing how she’d take his next question. “Did you… provoke them in any way?”

She became indignant. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not attacking you, Numa, but these are a warrior people. Their justice, fair or not, is not something they’d want us to interfere with. What _exactly_ did you do to help this man?”

“I…” Numa began, but flushed slightly in embarrassment, staring at her feet as she ground the grass beneath her boot, “I drew my lightsaber.”

“That is a violation of the terms of our agreement with Master Venra,” O-Vhu said with a sigh, “By rights you should be in chains.”

“What was I supposed to do?!” she nearly yelled, clenching her fists in agitation, “He was shaking with fear! Covered in swollen bruises! They were treating him like an animal, O-Vhu!”

“I’m sure there’s more to this than we’re seeing. You need to calm yourself, Numa. Do not let your righteous indignation lead you astray.”

“I’m trying, I just…” she trailed off.

“To be a Jedi Knight is to be an exemplar,” O-Vhu began as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “You’ve only just joined our ranks; it will take time to acclimate to this new independence away from your Master, but I believe in you.”

“Thanks. I’m glad we spoke; it’s given me time to process this,” she said as her temper finally cooled, “I wouldn’t wish to speak to Master Venra with such frustration clouding my thoughts.”

“Then I’m glad to have helped a friend. Go talk to him about this and let me know what he says. Perhaps there is a reason for this man’s imprisonment, or perhaps Master Venra doesn’t even know about him.”

Numa gave a quick bow and walked back to camp, leaving the cerean Jedi to contemplate her words. It was certainly concerning if the Mandalorians were acting in a dishonorable manner, and the fact that they had set up a secret military base in Alliance Space was worrisome enough. However, O-Vhu Tar had been a Jedi Knight for the better part of a decade and he knew when to act and when not to. Right now, he just didn’t have enough information.

_May the Force be with you, Numa’lestin._

* * *

A low whistle broke Tokare Venra from his meditations. Shuffling over to the kitchenette, he pulled away the kettle and poured it into an earthen mug with a mesh packet filled with flower petals and stems. He blew away the steam and took a sip of his bittersweet tea. His body warmed as it filled him.

It brought a smile to his wrinkled lips, one that had been elusive since he sat down at his computer terminal. A simple search for the name ‘Karorm’ had turned up nothing. Now the virtual intelligence program was sifting through the entire HoloNet for any mention at all. Eight hours in and there was still nothing, but a full search would probably take weeks, so it wasn’t that surprising. Maybe it was a fruitless effort; maybe it was one of the Sith’s many lies. At this point, it just felt like wasted time.

Tokare contemplated speaking with the prisoner again; maybe there were more tidbits he’d be willing to part with. Or maybe he could be caught outright in a lie.

His brow gave the slightest twitch as he reached out with the Force and opened the door to his quarters. Standing outside with a sour look and her mouth agape, just forming the words to speak to the guard outside the door, was Numa’lestin. When Daniel Skywalker suggested taking in some of the Knights who came to Rakata Prime to seize the relics there, she was one of three the Grand Master had chosen.

And to Tokare’s brown eyes, she was an ideal. Kind and knowledgeable, with just enough curiosity and ambition to seek out truth and justice. Everything he himself imparted into the Mandalorian Jedi he trained. “You may come in, Ms. Lestin.”

Numa bowed her head in acceptance before glancing at the guard and walking past. “Thank you for seeing me, Master Venra,” she said as she gave a deep bow.

“You’ve caught me in a rare state of idleness. It is good that you take advantage of it. Would you like some tea?”

“Uh… what kind?”

“No sense of adventure?” he asked with an amused quirk of his brow, “Cassius tea, it is. Made from the florets of a tree by the same name.”

“I will try some, yes,” she said as she took the offered mug, “Thank you.”

“Open-minded should a Jedi be. I was worried about the state of the Order when I spoke with Knight Paal. A Jedi should know their history, but he was disinterested.”

Numa gave a small laugh at his summation of her colleague. “Vetor was never much for the history crystals, too busy showing off with his lightsaber.”

“Disapprove do you?”

“Perhaps I spoke out of turn, Master,” she backpedaled, “He just focused on more practical matters than I did.”

“What is your area of focus, Ms. Lestin?” the old Master asked as he analyzed her body language.

“History and astrophysics mostly. I spent a fair amount of time in the training dojos as well, until the masters asked me to stop.”

“Why?”

“They… were worried about my aggression. I’ve had issues in the past with… temptations, I suppose.”

“Mm. All of us hear the call of our darker tendencies, some deal with it in different ways.”

“I only know the way of the Jedi. How do you cope with the temptation? How does Javen’Panlie?”

“By embracing our emotions as an inseparable part of ourselves. The Order has begun to slide back to the ways of the old Order. Suppression of our feelings only make a Jedi more susceptible to the dark side.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to be so blasé about your feelings? Any amount of anger or hatred could lead to corruption,” Numa asked, her skepticism clear on her face.

“True. But by allowing those feelings to express themselves, find balance amongst them, a Jedi can. They need not be consumed by them. Only so far can suppression support you. How would you handle such strong feelings when you can no longer suppress them?” he asked, turning a critical eye upon his guest, “What techniques and experience could you lean on to keep them from overwhelming you and forcing you down the dark path?”

“Support from others…?” she lamely suggested.

“And how much support can they provide, when the very tenets of your creed force you to keep them at arm’s length? I’m not saying your way is wrong, Ms. Lestin, there are just better options think I,” he said before taking a sip of his tea, “Hold a monopoly on such things, does not the Jedi Order. There are numerous sects completely disconnected from you. Imperial Knights, the Quabular, Green Jedi, Gray Jedi, those I trained myself, the list goes on. How many of them have fallen? Undien would have you believe they are all corrupt, but I think you’re intelligent enough to see through such a blatant falsehood.”

Tokare let his words sink in as he nibbled on the end of a wookiee-ookiee, brushing the cookie crumbs from his lips as he set the remainder back down. “Anyway, I’m sure you had something else in mind when you came to my room.”

Numa gave a start at the change in subject, but she was grateful nonetheless. “Y-Yes. I’m… concerned about the Mandalorians, Master. About some of things they’ve done.”

“Mm, much of what you know is simple propaganda, my dear. Lived amongst them for over seven hundred years have I. Try to keep an open mind.”

“It isn’t about my preconceptions, Master. I’m more concerned about what I’ve seen with my own eyes,” she explained, taking a pause to work up the courage to continue, “I… I saw a man in shackles recently. He was bruised and bloody and… he was wearing a Force suppression collar.”

Tokare listened, but kept his face neutral. He had been informed of the prisoner’s every move and he knew exactly what had happened in the camp mess hall. He took a sip from his mug and set it down on the table. “This man, spoken with him, have you?”

“I did, Master. The Mandalorians told me not to, but—”

“Listened to them, you should have.”

“How can you say that? How can you just sit here and do nothing as they abuse this captive, this _slave_?”

He quirked a silver eyebrow at that. “Slave, say you?”

“Yes! Kidnapping a Mind Walker and then forcing him to unlock Sith secrets? It’s abominable! Maybe the Mandalorians have sheltered you from this, but you have to make them free this man!”

“I see,” he said, rubbing a knuckle against his chin. This was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid when he’d released the prisoner from solitary confinement. “And who do you suppose they take orders from?”

“I…” She stumbled with the odd question. “Mandalore? I guess?”

“Yes, but he isn’t here, is he?” Tokare said with a patronizing smile. It was time to dispel the girl’s misunderstandings. “You may believe that they keep secrets from me, but I assure you they do not. I know exactly what they have done and will continue to do to the prisoner Darrben. After all, I was the one who ordered it.”

Numa grimaced as she heard his words. “You _ordered_ them to beat him? Abuse a defenseless prisoner?!”

“Mm, I do not condone the liberties some have taken with the prisoner, but I am not naïve about the threat the galaxy faces in the shadows. Sometimes extremes are necessary to keep the galaxy turning in peace.”

Numa was left speechless. Apparently, the concepts he so casually discussed were as foreign to her as the mind of a wampa.

“A moment will I now take to explain the situation to you. Firstly, much like the Mandalorians of this camp, beholden to me are you. When I give you an order, you will obey it or find yourself in chains until we leave. Secondly, the prisoner is not what he seems. You may see a victim of a marauding horde, but a façade, this is. A murderer, a liar, a threat, that man is.” Tokare narrowed his eyes as he stared into hers. “He is _Sith_.”

Numa scoffed at last part, whatever patience she had evaporated as soon as she heard the word. “The Sith are dead. That you would use them as an excuse to persecute an innocent man just shows how far you’ve fallen. Master Undien was right about you.”

She set down her barely touched mug of tea and stood to leave, not even bothering with a formal bow as she made her way to the door.

“Before you go, Ms. Lestin, say one last thing, I must,” Tokare called out.

Numa stopped at the doorway and turned her head, a frown marring her features.

“You may not speak to the prisoner again. If you do, we will have no choice but to imprison you as well. Then, when the situation permits, return you to Undien will we.”

Her eyes flashed with indignant anger. She gave a huff before storming out of the door, only disappearing from sight at it slid shut behind her.

Tokare stared at the closed door, his mind awash with the implications. With Knight Grahrk dead, only two Orthodox Jedi remained in camp to provide assistance. But now it was looking like one of them had been compromised. Her sympathies preyed upon by a chained dragon. He reached for his comm-link and triggered it to call the camp overseer. As the call connected, there was a ding from the computer across the room; the search for ‘Karorm’ had produced a result far sooner than expected.

“Lieutenant Bulla, new orders for you have I,” Tokare said as he ambled over to the computer desk.

A feminine voice sounded from the receiver, _“How my I serve, Master Tokare?”_

Tokare’s eyes pored over the computer screen. “I need another pair of minders in camp. Someone to keep an eye on Knight Lestin and ensure she does not interact with the Sith prisoner.”

_“I’ll put Kiloss on it. It’ll help take his mind off of things.”_

“Very well. If she attempts to make contact, detained and fitted with a Force suppression collar, she is to be.”

_“Understood, sir. Should they be visible or hidden?”_

“Visible. Best she know they’re there.”

_“It will be done. Bulla out.”_

Tokare closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh. He hated to have to do such a thing. The girl didn’t deserve to be punished for her compassion, but the situation was tenuous enough at is was. If the Onderonians discovered them, or if the prisoner escaped and someone was killed, it could jeopardize the entire mission. If an innocent had to be reprimanded then so be it.

The old Jedi lifted his mug and finished the last of his tea. Today it tasted very bitter indeed.

* * *

Numa’s mind was simmering with quiet rage as she stomped through the camp, seeking out her fellow Jedi. She tried to calm her breathing and slow her racing heart, but she found the process difficult and tiring. She’d almost found her balance when she was cut off by a pair of Mandalorians, one male, the other female.

“Jedi Knight Numa’lestin?” the male Mando asked.

She eyed the pair a moment before answering, “…Yes?”

“I’m Eruul’Kiloss, and this is Mirta’Parr. Master Tokare has asked that we escort you through camp during your stay.”

Numa froze at his words. “You… you can’t be serious.”

“His orders were clear, ma’am. You are not to be left alone.”

Her eyes narrowed as all her suppressed anger came rushing back. “What does that mean?! Am I prisoner?!”

“You are not a prisoner, ma’am. We will escort you around camp, but will not interfere with your activities unless they are prohibited. Allowances will be made for privacy’s sake,” he reassured before continuing, “We will remain outside the entrance of any building you enter unless there are multiple entrances. We are chaperones, not prison guards.”

“… _Fine_ ,” she hissed as she continued trudging along the path. _Unbelievable._

Numa came upon the small building that housed the Jedi of the camp, just a small prefab with a trio of cots and lockers. Leaving her guards outside, she entered and locked the door behind her before approaching the hunched figure on one of the cots.

O-Vhu Tar opened his eyes and appraised her with a frown. “Your anger is even more pronounced than it was before. What happened out there, Numa?”

“Master Ven—” she stopped herself and looked around the room, “Do you think they bugged the room?”

“I do not _think_ , I _know_ ,” O-Vhu said as he gestured to a small box in the corner, “I found them after we parted ways earlier. They weren’t active, but I disabled them regardless. Your suspicions are wearing on my mind it seems.”

“Okay…” Numa said as she let out a relieved sigh, “Master Venra knows about the prisoner, O-Vhu! By the Force, he told me that he himself had ordered it!”

O-Vhu Tar narrowed his eyes in contemplation, confusion coloring his features. “What was his justification?”

“He claimed Darrben had killed some Mandalorians, though he didn’t offer any proof,” she answered with a shrug.

“Mm, and what do you really know about this man anyway?”

“Not much, honestly. But I know what I’ve seen. And I know Venra is grasping at straws to justify this. He said Darrben is a _Sith_ , can you believe that? Such rubbish.”

O-Vhu’s eyes widened at this. “He actually used that word?”

“Yes! It’s insane! Everything I’ve seen just proves Master Undien’s point. Venra can’t be trusted. These Mandalorians can’t be trusted. We need to help Darrben and get away from this place.”

The cerean just shook his head. “Master Skywalker would not agree with your assessment. The Mandalorians have dealt honorably with him by all accounts.”

“But how reliable is the Grand Master anyway? You’ve seen how he looked the other way to protect Alana. How tolerant he is of heretical teachings.”

“Would you not do the same in his position? She is his great-granddaughter.”

Numa scoffed, “His first priority should be to the Order. His emotions are dictating his actions. It is foolish.”

“And what are _your_ emotions dictating? Your anger and sympathy are pushing you to help this prisoner. I’m not saying you’re wrong, just be sure you’re making the right choices in this. Regret is not something you should force upon yourself by not thinking things through now,” Knight Tar said.

He paused a moment to let his words sink in before placing his hands on Numa’s shoulders. “However, if you truly believe this is the right course, Numa, I will not stand in your way. I’m not sure what aid I can offer, but whatever you need will be done. It may not seem it, but I share your concerns; the actions of the Mandalorians are questionable,” his words became more urgent as he voiced his own worries, “We stand here, so close to a member world of the Galactic Alliance, and yet a foreign power has established a secret military camp within our territory. It is beyond disconcerting.”

Numa gave his offer some thought. “If you can buy me some time… there’s something I need to check in the armory. Could be useful if it has what I need.”

O-Vhu Tar closed his eyes and gave a quiet sigh. “Whatever you’re planning, Numa, ensure it does not lead to the death of an innocent. There are few things that weigh on the conscious more than that.”

* * *

Numa glanced around her as she made her way to the back of the camp armory, clad only in her black armored undersuit. O-Vhu had approached her guards as they stood watch outside their quarters, continuing a conversation about racing or some such. It had given her a chance to crawl through the narrow vent slat near the ceiling, though she had silently cursed her breasts at the time, their girth almost preventing her from squeezing through in the first place. She was thankful the camp was kept so dark at night; they didn’t want any light to peek out from beneath the holo-canopy and give away their position.

Making sure she was alone, she reached out with the Force and slowly manipulated the analogue tumbler of the locked case. Flinging open the hatch, she beheld an organized collection of everything she needed – wires, receivers, batteries, etc. Gathering everything into a duffel bag, she resealed the case and fled the armory, her ill-gotten goods hanging from a shoulder strap.

_I wonder how long it’ll take to set this all up. Six hours till sunrise, can probably get this all done in three— OHMIGODS!_

She threw herself against the side of the nearest building, her heart thumping in her chest and her breaths coming in a sputter. She cursed to herself as she realized what had startled her was nothing more than a flapping tarp in the shadows.

_Alright, calm down. Two hundred more meters to the bunkhouse. You can do this, Numa._

Her nerves were alight with a racing anxiety as she moved through the darkened camp toward her quarters. She knew she was doing the right thing, but the stress of such subterfuge was enormous. She felt a rush of exhilaration she hadn’t experienced since the first time she’d moved the training blocks at the Academy.

* * *

Taral sat on a small outcropping of gneiss boulders, staring off into the jungles away from the camp. The air was heavy and humid, but the smell of the forest still permeated his senses. He felt a twinge of nostalgia at the back of his mind. The years he spent as a child running through the forests near his home. Happier times, before it was all swept away.

_All I’m missing is a bag of jerky and a bottle of dad’s booze._

There was a pair of strange, four-winged birds flying above the canopy. Fighting over nesting rights perhaps. It was like watching the local flocks of luvan birds as a child. Though the illusion lost its luster as a skreev swooped in and snatched one of the strange birds in its jaws. Such was life on the ‘Demon Moon,’ fleeting as it was. It made him grateful for the sonic generators that dotted the camp’s edge, keeping the fauna at bay.

Taral gave a sidelong glance to the trio of guards arrayed around him, idly wondering what they felt when they took a moment to look around this place. Were they struck by nostalgia as well? Or was it just another place for them to wear their armor? Probably the latter. If they were comfortable enough to hover over him while he slept last night or stare at him while he sat on the toilet, chances were they didn’t feel anything about anywhere.

_Nothing more than organic droids._

He contemplated the truth of such a mild slur. They could not be bought, bribed, intimidated, fooled, the list went on. They knew who he was, they knew what he’d done, they knew what he was capable of. Without them making mistakes like they did on the _Gayiyli_ , what chance did he have at freedom?

It brought his thoughts to the conversation he’d shared with Master Tokare the previous day. In truth, calling it a ‘conversation’ was a bit generous.

* * *

_“You are to stay away from Ms. Lestin,” Tokare ordered._

_“I saw an opportunity and took it,” Taral scoffed at the Jedi’s command, “More the fool are you for letting an idiot like her wander about.”_

_Tokare narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I am being unclear. There are consequences for your actions, Darrben. Penalties you suffer for certain infractions. Speaking to Miss Lestin is now a punishable action. Knight Tar as well.”_

_“Who? Never met… him? Her? Anyway, it’s hardly a loss. Jedi make for boring conversationalists,” he said with a dismissive wave, “Anything else,_ Jedi _?”_

_“No. Good day, Darrben,” Tokare said as the conversation ended and Taral was ushered from the old Master’s quarters._

* * *

_‘Good day’… maybe I’ll have one of those soon._

Taral sighed at the memory. Had he squandered his chance yesterday? Would he ever have another? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turned to the lead guard. “What’s your name, Mandalorian?”

The man just stared for a moment behind his inscrutable helmet before grunting a response, “Hmph, you first.”

“My name is Darrben, as you well know.”

“I doubt that, but I’ll humor you, Darjetii. My name is Kal’Onasi of Clan Ordo.”

Taral cocked an eyebrow at the man’s skepticism. “There’s no reason to doubt the truth.”

“If so, then it’s the first honest thing you’ve said,” the Mando replied with a shrug.

“That hurts my feelings, Onasi. A man is only as good as his word.”

“A man’s actions speak far louder. You dropped the scared captive routine as soon as that Jetii was out of sight.”

“And what do _your_ actions say? You’ve been my guard this whole time, right? What do the beatings say about you and your men?”

“That you got off easy.”

Taral chuckled at that. “And what did Tokare think of it all?”

Onasi’s body stiffened slightly. “I haven’t asked.”

“I can’t imagine he didn’t know, but if he actually _ordere_ —”

“He did not,” Onasi interrupted.

“Ah. So he just turned the other way,” Taral said before a sardonic expression graced his lips, “What an interesting ‘Jedi’ he turned out to be.”

“Your insinuation is obvious and transparent. Even if he is not an ‘ideal Jedi,’ he has more honor and dignity than a wretch like you could ever dream of.”

Taral’s response was a muted chuckle. Glancing over the camp, his eyes were drawn to a shadowy figure between two of the buildings. He quirked an eyebrow as the naïve Jedi met his eyes and ducked out of sight.

_Hmm, what are you up to, Numa’lestin? And what can it do for me?_

* * *

The young Jedi Knight felt rather than saw the four individuals as they walked past the corner she’d hidden away in. As they passed, she threw a stun grenade and ripped off the Mandalorians’ helmets with the Force just as the sound dampener spun up to full power and bathed the area in eerie silence. The group collapsed to the ground as she rushed forward with a blaster pistol in her hand and placed her fingers atop the heads of the prone Mandalorians, flooding their addled minds with inconsistent sensory gibberish and forcing them into true unconsciousness.

Taral watched with glazed eyes as the Jedi approached, his shackles having activated the instant Onasi had collapsed. Enough feeling returned for him to move his lips and form words, but no sound could be heard. His face scrunched up in annoyance before Numa turned away and shut off the sound dampener.

The silence gave way to a shrill siren echoing through the camp. It was then that the pair noticed an aerial drone hovering above them, watching their every move.

“Jedi, tap his wrist to activate the… the haptic-padd, then… turn these things off,” Taral forced out through his vertigo as he nodded his head toward Onasi.

Numa reached for the Mando’s gauntlet and recoiled as floating haptic panels resolved in the air around his forearm. It was a fascinating piece of technology, but she gave a hiss of frustration as she inspected it closer. “It’s all in Mandalorian.”

“Hold it up and let me look at it,” said Taral as he wriggled closer, “Bottom right in green, press it.”

As she did so, the magnets became inert and Taral was able to pull himself to his feet. He snatched up Onasi’s blaster rifle and loosed two bolts into the air, destroying the hovering drone.

“Grab the guns, we can hole up in that building over there,” Taral said as he grabbed a holo-communicator and a handful of grenades.

The pair dove into the storage prefab as several Mandalorians rounded the corner and opened fire. The blaster bolts ricocheted off the wall and Taral gave silent thanks for the ridiculous militarism the Mandalorians embraced. Something as simple as a prefab shed had at least two centimeters of armor plating.

“Fucking hell, it would be easier to escape from Pergatorum,” he groaned before turning to his unlikely savior, “Hey, Jedi, I need you to remove this collar.”

Numa looked over the locking mechanism and noted the warped, raised section of the weld line. She drew her lightsaber as he lifted the collar away from his clavicle. She tapped the silver ring on the edge and used the Force to bend the metal away, the inert ring clanging loudly on the metal grate floor.

Taral gingerly rubbed his throat as the weight was lifted, silently beaming as his connection to the Force returned in full. His small smile gave way as he regarded the confused look of his companion. “What?”

“…Why can’t I sense you?”

“There’s more to the Force than what the Jedi teach,” Taral said as he used the Force to undo the mag-shackles from his arms and legs, “We can discuss the specifics when we’re not dodging blaster bolts. They use armored crates, let’s set them up as a low defensive wall.”

The pair moved three large crates into a concave arch around the entrance. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could manage. As they finished, the Jedi looked outside and her face dropped at the sight. “We’re trapped, Darrben. I… I don’t know… What are we going to do?”

“Calm your tits, girl, we ain’t dead yet. First things first. We need to assess the situation,” he said as he glanced through the open doorframe, “Oh, look at that, they’ve got a whole company out there. My professional assessment? We are _fucked_. Completely and utterly.”

He almost laughed at his companion’s crestfallen expression. “However, there’s always a way out,” he said as his brain performed mental gymnastics in a desperate attempt to conceive of _any_ possible outcome that didn’t end with him dead.

…Nothing came to mind.

“That being said… I don’t really see one. Any ideas?” he asked as he looked sidelong at his companion.

“Uh… oh! Yeah, as a matter-of-fact,” she began as she pulled out a box the size of a cigarette pack, with a small receiver and a single button, “I brought some insurance for just this kind of scenario.”

“Let me see,” Taral said as he took the detonator and gave an appreciative hum as he inspected it, “Aren’t you just full of surprises. Where’d you plant the charges?”

Numa gave a nod out the door. “On the support columns of the holo-canopy shroud.”

“Nice, that’s just the sort of leverage we need,” he said as he set down his blaster, pausing as he took in his companion’s confusion, “What is it now, Jedi?”

Numa furrowed her brow. “You seem… different, from how you were earlier.”

“How so?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“I don’t know. You’re less… timid? I guess?” she suggested with a shrug.

Taral stared at her for a moment, one eye giving a twitch of annoyance. “You _cannot_ be serious. There’s a literal army bearing down on us, and you’re questioning my timidity? Get your shit together, Jedi! Save your curiosity for when we’re out of this mess,” he admonished as he pulled out the holo-communicator, “Tokare, if I could have just a _moment_ of your time. I feel like we need to clear the air between us. Let bygones be bygon—”

His plea was interrupted by the clank of several grenades skittering across the floor plates of the shed. With a gesture, the grenades were flung outside with the Force, detonating in flashbangs and sleeping gas. It was then that a Mandalorian leaned around the doorframe and fired off a stun pulse.

Taral reached out and called Numa’s lightsaber to his hand, swirling it along the blue ring of the stun pulse and dissipating it into blue-white sparks. He lifted the Mando off his feet and flung him back with the Force. A twinge on his perceptions brought the lightsaber up to block a blaster bolt from a nearby rooftop. The thunderous report of a sniper rifle echoing out shortly after. He gave a quiet sigh of relief as he dived back behind cover, unharmed. He hadn’t deflected the bolt; it had struck the lightsaber hilt itself.

“Ha! You missed me, fucker!” Taral yelled in faux triumph, only to grow quiet as the lightsaber vibrated uncontrollably in his hand, “Huh?”

The metal near the emitter began to glow orange as excess plasma was vented through the internal containment field. The blade energy channel and cycling field energizers liquefied in an instant as the vented plasma forced its way past the magnetic barrier.

“Whoa! Shit!” Taral screamed as he threw the lightsaber away just as it exploded. He shielded his face with his arm, only to rapidly swing it back-and-forth to cool the liquid metal that had splashed onto his skin. He hissed and grit his teeth as he nursed the fresh blisters on his forearm. “Unbe-fucking-lievable! Jedi, why the _fuck_ would you leave the crystal exposed?!”

Numa flinched at the sharp rebuke before stuttering a reply, “S-Sorry, I… I thought it looked… cool.”

“Cool? _COOL_?!” he screamed, “I almost lost my hand, you fucking moron!”

He let out a growl of agitation as he saw more of the Mandos starting to inch closer. He drew his stolen blaster and loosed a few bolts over the barricade and into the dirt, enough to force the Mandalorians to halt their approach and dive for cover. He did the same as another pair of sniper shots ricocheted off the armored crates.

“As I was _saying_!” Taral yelled over the din, even as he stared at the tiny Tokare on the nearby holo-communicator, “We can reach an agreement on this, Tokare. I’d rather not have this end poorly.”

 _“Step outside and surrender yourself,”_ the old Master said as his small luminous form made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“I really wish you people would just leave well enough alone,” Taral snarled as he shot off another burst of blaster bolts and threw two stun grenades out the door, each set on a proximity trigger, “All I want to do is leave.”

_“Freedom was never an option, Darrben. Too many have you killed.”_

Taral sneered, “Regretful though it was, I won’t apologize for what happened. As far as I’m concerned, that was purely self-defense.”

_“Even Knight Grahrk?”_

Numa perked up at that. _Wait, what?_ “Master Venra… you told us Manu was assisting the Mandalorians on the ship.”

Tokare closed his eyes and sighed, his jab at Taral was ill-timed. _“He was killed when Darrben attempted to escape the first time.”_

“Why was I not informed of this? A Jedi is dead and you thought to hide this from me?!”

_“I find it curious that your outrage is directed at me, instead of the one who killed Knight Grahrk. Misplaced are your priorities, Ms. Lestin.”_

“I…?” Numa started, unsure of how to process that. The secrecy was appalling, but if Taral really had killed her fellow Jedi…

Taral decided to step in and try to steer the conversation away from such dangerous territory. “I’m not sure it matters at this point. I’ve been far more gentle this time around. Not a single person has died since I was brought to this moon.”

 _“Appreciate it, I do, but it changes nothing,”_ the old Jedi declared.

“I disagree. I think it changes _everything_. I’m not going to rely on your good graces, Tokare. I’m going to force your hand,” Taral warned.

 _“Oh? What with?”_ Tokare asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“A little gift from my Jedi friend.”

Tokare was silent for a moment. _“Ms. Lestin… what have you done?”_

“There ar—” Her words were interrupted as a blaster bolt whizzed past her head; she aimed her pistol over the crate and blindly returned fire. “There are det-charges on the support columns to the canopy shroud. Set to go off with the press of a button.”

 _“You foolish child!”_ the old Master exclaimed, true anger coloring his features, _“Have you any idea what you’ve done?! A Sith cannot be trusted!”_

“I’m not sure _you_ can be trusted,” she countered, “You kept Manu’s death from me and O-Vhu—”

_“Darrben murdered Knight Grahrk! You are allying with a Sith!”_

“And you were responsible for him! What orders did you give him?! Was he trying to capture Darrben on your behalf?! Was he killed for you?!” Numa roared, her righteous anger on full display, a wave of her hand returned another volley of grenades to their owners, “I do not see a Sith before me, Master Venra. I see a man with his back against the wall. I see a man persecuted and abused by someone who claims to be a Jedi. How far have you fallen that you can’t see that?”

 _“Not as far as you have in your ignorance,”_ he sneered, his words thick with contempt.

“Now, now, Tokare, let’s not blow this out of proportion. We’re still ‘negotiating’ after all,” Taral said with a gloating lilt, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want the Onderonians to find you loitering in their space.”

 _“Mm… fine, negotiate, we can,”_ the old Jedi relented before raising his voice, _“but you_ must _put down the detonator and your weapons.”_

“I’m not dropping shit until I push the button or my blade is in my hand and your dogs holster their weapons.”

_“Outnumbered are you. You cannot leave that building. Even if you managed to steal a ship, the skies are a death trap. Nowhere to go, have you.”_

“That just means I’ve got nothing to lose!” Taral snarled as his thumb nervously rubbed over the activation button on the detonator, “I’m gonna start a silent countdown, and when I reach ‘zero,’ I’m pushing this button. So you better make up your mind real fucking quick, Jedi!” _Please don’t make me push the button. Please don’t make me push the button. Please don’t make me push the button._

Master Tokare’s tiny, blue, holographic eyes narrowed as he contemplated the situation. It was then that Taral felt a tingle at the back of his mind. Apparently the Jedi was gauging his intent. He still felt uneasy about the situation and didn’t bother to hide it. Instead, he forced his resolve to the forefront, he didn’t want to bring down the roof, but there was no question that he would. When the tingle disappeared, he watched as Tokare’s hologram dipped its head and released a quiet sigh. It was the beautiful sound of sweet, sweet victory.

_“You would entomb yourself over this?”_

“I would do more than that to secure my freedom, Jedi. _Never_ doubt my resolve.”

 _“Mm, underestimated you, did I. Lieutenant Bulla, tell your men to stand down,”_ the old Jedi ordered as he finally relented.

 _Thank god,_ Taral thought as he watched the Mandalorians holster their weapons with only a moment of hesitation here or there. “That’s a promising start, Jedi,” he said as he glared at the old alien’s visage, “Now where’s my blade?”

Tokare opened a compartment on his hoverchair and withdrew a silver cylinder, handing it to a nearby Mando who held it out and walked toward the shed unarmed. Taral felt his heart skip a beat as he beheld the only possession he truly treasured… the feeling was utterly consumed by mirth as the Mando stumbled into range of one of the stun grenade mines. The man collapsed in a heap and dropped the lightsaber in the dirt.

The young Sith never laughed so hard in his life.

With a flick of his wrist, he stowed the detonator away and called the hilt to his hand, igniting it with a snap-hiss of ruby-red light. The ominous color brought a surprised gasp to Numa’s lips, but Taral ignored her. A quick flourish of the blade brought a wistful grin to his face as he felt the familiar weight in his palm.

_Biala… you’re finally home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn’t fun to rewrite. I hoped to just recycle and rewrite old shit into something better, but the changes made to Chapters 1 and 2 forced this into a completely different direction. 95.3536% of this chapter had to be written from scratch – yes, I did the math. I think it turned out adequately enough, especially with the dynamite suggestions of the Editing Gang.
> 
> Character Concepts:
> 
> Numa  
> Numa is a difficult character for me to conceptualize, as her overall personality has gone through a few rewrites. She’s genuinely a good person, but she still falls into all the same pitfalls of other Jedi. She’s obnoxious, holier-than-thou, elitist, etc. That was the first rewrite, giving her personality flaws and moving away from a two-dimensional caricature.
> 
> She’s very smart. I feel I need to point that out since she was so easily hoodwinked by Taral’s puppy dog eyes, despite how well she organized a unilateral rescue op. She was operating heavily under a confirmation bias. She wanted to believe Taral was the victim; she wanted to believe that the Mandalorians were barbarians.
> 
> She’s got a lot to think about now that this chapter is over and Taral’s lies are laid bare… assuming she even acknowledges them as lies. She’s in a confusing position right now, both for her and me (the author). We’ll see where it goes from here.
> 
> Special thanks to Xabiar for helping round her out as a character. She was pretty dumb in the first draft.
> 
> Taral  
> When I first imagined the mess hall scene, there was a part where Taral would snort a line of powderized painkillers before putting on his earphones and listening to music. He would have then subconsciously projected the music into the minds of everyone in the mess hall. This was the thought process I used to create his background – I imagined him listening to sad music in a prison cell and projecting his bad memories to those around him. The song I was listening to at the time was “Behind Blue Eyes” (Limp Bizkit version, I’m ashamed to say).
> 
> It never really fit because it made him infinitely more powerful than he had any right to be. And with the rewrite turning him into an actual prisoner, there’s no way he’d be able to pull that off under guard.
> 
> ***
> 
> You may have noticed Taral’s propensity to ‘negotiate’ and manipulate through words alone. Those are certainly important skills (especially when wearing a suppression collar), but you should ask yourself why he’s so well-versed in those methods.
> 
> Biala  
> I wonder if anyone was curious about Biala when she was mentioned in Chapter 1. Nobody asked, but now we all know that’s just the name he gave his lightsaber. Ooh, big reveal.


End file.
